THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT 

From  the  library  of 
Henry  Goldman,  C.E.  Ph.D. 

1886-1972 


THE    EARTHLY  PARADISE. 


THE 


EARTHLY  PARADISE 


A   POEM. 


BY  WILLIAM   MORRIS, 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  LIFE  AND  DEATH  OF  JASON. 


PARTS     I.    AND    II. 


BOSTON: 
ROBERTS  BROTHERS. 

1870. 


AUTHOR'S  EDITION. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS  :  WELCH,  BIGELOW,  &  Co. 
CAMBRIDGE. 


StaeX 
Annex 


I&TO 
v.\ 


TO 

MY  WIFE 

I    DEDICATE    THIS    BOOK. 


A   TABLE   OF  CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

AN  APOLOGY        ........  i 

PROLOGUE.  —  THE  WANDERERS     ....  3 

THE  AUTHOR  TO  THE  READER 66 

MARCH 67 

ATALANTA'S  RACE 70 

THE  MAN  BORN  TO  BE  KING  .  90 

APRIL 140 

THE  DOOM  OF  KING  ACRISIUS       .       .       .  142. 

THE  PROUD  KING 199 

MAY 221 

THE  STORY  OF  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE       .        .  223 

THE  WRITING  ON  THE  IMAGE    ....  282 

JUNE 291 

THE  LOVE  OF  ALCESTIS       .        .        •        •  293 

THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAND        .        .        •        .  324 

JULY 333 

THE  RON  OF  CROZSUS 34° 

THE  WATCHING  OF  THE  FALCON        .       .        .  354 

AUGUST 375 

PYGMALION  AND  THE  IMAGE       .        .        .        .376 

OGIER  THE  DANE 394 


THE   EARTHLY   PARADISE 


/~\F  Heaven  or  Hell  I  have  no  power  to  sing, 
V_/  /  cannot  ease  the  burden  of  your  fears, 
Or  make  quick-corning  death  a  little  iking, 
Or  bring  again  the  pleasure  of  past  years, 
Nor  for  my  words  shall  ye  forget  your  tears, 
Or  hope  again  for  aught  tJiat  I  can  say, 
The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

But  rather,  when  aweary  of  your  mirth, 
From  full  hearts  still  unsatisfied  ye  sigh, 
And,  feeling  kindly  unto  all  the  earth, 
Grudge  every  minute  as  it  passes  by, 
Made  the  more  mindful  that  the  sweet  days  die,  — 
Remember  me  a  little  then,  I  pray, 
The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

The  heavy  trouble,  the  beioildering  care 
That  weighs  us  down  who  live  and  earn  our  bread, 
These  idle  verses  have  no  power  to  bear  ; 
So  let  me  sing  of  names  remembered, 
Because  they,  living  not,  can  n£er  be  dead, 
Or  long  time  take  their  memory  quite  away 
From  us  poor  singers  of  an  empty  day. 

Dreamer  of  dreams,  born  out  of  my  due  time, 
W7iy  should  I  strive  to  set  the  crooked  straight  ? 
Let  it  suffice  vie  that  my  murmuring  rhyme 
Beats  with  light  wing  against  the  ivory  gate, 
Telling  a  tale  not  too  importunate 
To  those  who  in  the  sleepy  region  stay, 
Lulled  by  the  singer  of  an  empty  day. 
I 


THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Folk  say,  a  wizard  to  a  northern  king 
At  Christmas-tide  such  -wondrous  things  did  show, 

That  through  one  window  men  beheld  the  spring. 
And  through  another  saw  the  summer  glow, 
And  through  a  third  the  fruited  vines  arow, 

While  still,  unheard,  but  in  its  wonted  way, 
Piped  the  drear  wind  of  that  December  day. 

So  with  this  Earthly  Paradise  it  is, 
If  ye  will  read  aright,  and  pardon  me, 
Who  strive  to  build  a  shadowy  isle  of  bliss 
Midmost  the  beating  of  the  steely  sea, 
Where  tossed  about  all  hearts  of  men  must  be  ; 
Whose  ravening  monsters  mighty  men  shall  slay, 
Not  the  poor  singer  of  an  empty  day. 


PROLOGUE.  — THE    WANDERERS. 


ARGUMENT. 

CERTAIN  gentlemen  and  mariners  of  Norway,  having  considered  all  that 
they  had  heard  of  the  Earthly  Paradise,  set  sail  to  find  it,  and  after 
many  troubles  and  the  lapse  of  many  years  came  old  men  to  some 
Western  land,  of  which  they  had  never  before  heard  :  there  they  died, 
\vhen  they  had  dwelt  there  certain  years,  much  honored  of  the  strange 
people. 

FORGET  six  counties  overhung  with  smoke, 
Forget  the  snorting  steam  and  piston  stroke, 
Forget  the  spreading  of  the  hideous  town  ; 
Think  rather  of  the  pack-horse  on  the  down, 
And  dream  of  London,  small,  and  white,  and  clean, 
The  clear  Thames  bordered  by  its  gardens  green  ; 
Think,  that  below  bridge  the  green  lapping  waves 
Smite  some  few  keels  that  bear  Levantine  staves, 
Cut  from  the  yew  wood  on  the  burnt-up  hill, 
And  pointed  jars  that  Greek  hands  toiled  to  fill. 
And  treasured  scanty  spice  from  some  far  sea, 
Florence  gold  cloth,  and  Ypres  napery, 
And  cloth  of  Bruges,  and  hogsheads  of  Guienne  ; 
While  nigh  the  thronged  wharf  Geoffrey  Chaucer's  pen 
Moves  over  bills  of  lading,  —  'mid  such  times 
Shall  dwell  the  hollow  puppets  of  my  rhymes. 

A  nameless  city  in  a  distant  sea, 
White  as  the  changing  walls  of  faerie, 
Thronged  with  much  people  clad  in  ancient  guise 
I  now  am  fain  to  set  before  your  eyes  ; 
There,  leave  the  clear  green  water  and  the  quays, 
And  pass  betwixt  its  marble  palaces, 
Until  ye  come  unto  the  chiefest  square  ; 
A  bubbling  conduit  is  set  midmost  there, 
And  round  about  it  now  the  maidens  throng, 
With  jest  and  laughter,  and  sweet  broken  song, 


|.  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Making  but  light  of  labor  new  begun 

\Yhile  in  their  vessels  gleams  the  morning  sun. 

On  one  side  of  the  square  a  temple  stands, 
Wherein  the  gods  worshipped  in  ancient  lands 
Still  have  their  altars  ;  a  great  market-place 
Upon  two  other  sides  fills  all  the  space, 
And  thence  the  busy  hum  of  men  comes  forth  ; 
But  on  the  cold  side  looking  toward  the  north 
A  pillared  council-house  may  you  behold, 
Within  whose  porch  are  images  of  gold, 
Gods  of  the  nations  who  dwelt  anciently 
About  the  borders  of  the  Grecian  sea. 

Pass  now  between  them,  push  the  brazen  door, 
And  standing  on  the  polished  marble  floor 
Leave  all  the  noises  of  the  square  behind  ; 
Most  calm  that  reverent  chamber  shall  ye  find, 
Silent  at  first,  but  for  the  noise  you  made 
When  on  the  brazen  door  your  hand  you  laid 
To  shut  it  after  you,  —  but  now  behold 
The  city  rulers  on  their  thrones  of  gold, 
Clad  in  most  fair  attire,  and  in  their  hands 
Long  carven  silver-banded  ebony  wands ; 
Then  from  the  dais  drop  your  eyes  and  see 
Soldiers  and  peasants  standing  reverently 
Before  those  elders,  round  a  little  band 
Who  bear  such  arms  as  guard  the  English  land, 
But  battered,  rent,  and  rusted  sore,  and  they, 
The  men  themselves,  are  shrivelled,  bent,  and  gray ; 
And  as  they  lean  with  pain  upon  their  spears 
Their  brows  seem  furrowed  deep  \vith  more  than  years ; 
For  sorrow  dulls  their  heavy  sunken  eyes, 
Bent  are  they  less  with  time  than  miseries. 

Pondering  on  them  the  city  graybeards  gaze 
Through  kindly  eyes,  midst  thoughts  of  other  days, 
And  pity  for  poor  souls,  and  vague  regret 
For  all  the  things  that  might  have  happened  yet, 
Until,  their  wonder  gathering  to  a  head, 
The  wisest  man,  who  long  that  land  has  led, 
Breaks  the  deep  silence,  unto  whom  again 
A  wanderer  answers.      Slowly  as  in  pain, 
And  with  a  hollow  voice  as  from  a  tomb 
At  first  he  tells  the  story  of  his  doom, 
But  as  it  grows  and  once  more  hopes  and  fears, 
Both  measureless,  are  ringing  round  his  ears, 


PROLOG UE.  —  THE    WANDERERS. 

His  eyes  grow  bright,  his  seeming  days  decrease, 
For  grief  once  told  brings  somewhat  back  of  peace. 

THE  ELDER  OF  THE  CITY. 

From  what  unheard-of  world,  in  what  strange  keel, 
Have  ye  come  hither  to  our  commonweal  ? 
No  barbarous  race,  as  these  our  peasants  say, 
But  learned  in  memories  of  a  long-past  day, 
Speaking,  some  few  at  least,  the  ancient  tongue 
That  through  the  lapse  of  ages  still  has  clung 
To  us,  the  seed  of  the  Ionian  race. 

Speak  out  and  fear  not ;  if  ye  need  a  place 
Wherein  to  pass  the  end  of  life  away, 
That  shall  ye  gain  from  us  from  this  same  day, 
Unless  the  enemies  of  God  ye  are  ; 
We  fear  not  you  and  yours  to  bear  us  war, 
And  scarce  can  think  that  ye  will  try  again 
Across  the  perils  of  the  shifting  plain 
To  seek  your  own  land  whereso  that  may  be  : 
For  folk  of  ours  bearing  the  memory 
Of  our  old  land,  in  days  past  oft  have  striven 
To  reach  it,  unto  none  of  whom  was  given 
To  come  again  and  tell  us  of  the  tale, 
Therefore  our  ships  are  now  content  to  sail 
About  these  happy  islands  that  we  know. 

THE  WANDERER. 

Masters,  I  have  to  tell  a  tale  of  woe, 
A  tale  of  folly  and  of  wasted  life, 
Hope  against  hope,  the  bitter  dregs  of  strife, 
Ending,  where  all  things  end,  in  death  at  last : 
So  if  I  tell  the  story  of  the  past, 
Let  it  be  worth  some  little  rest,  I  pray, 
A  little  slumber  ere  the  end  of  day. 

No  wonder  if  the  Grecian  tongue  I  know, 
Since  at  Byzantium  many  a  year  ago 
My  father  bore  the  twibil  valiantly  ; 
There  did  he  many,  and  get  me,  and  die, 
And  I  went  back  to  Norway  to  my  kin, 
Long  ere  this  beard  ye  see  did  first  begin 
To  shade  my  mouth,  but  nathless  not  before 
Among  the  Greeks  I  gathered  some  small  lore, 
And,  standing  midst  the  Vceringers,  still  heard 


THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

From  this  or  that  man  many  a  wondrous  word  ; 

For  ye  shall  know  that  though  we  worshipped  God, 

And  heard  mass  duly,  still  of  Swithiod 

The  Greater,  Odin  and  his  house  of  gold, 

The  noble  stories  ceased  not  to  be  told  ; 

These  moved  me  more  than  words  of  mine  can  say 

E'en  while  at  Micklegarth  my  folks  did  stay  ; 

But  when  I  reached  one  dying  autumn-tide 

My  uncle's  dwelling  near  the  forest-side, 

And  saw  the  land  so  scanty  and  so  bare, 

And  all  the  hard  things  men  contend  with  there, 

A  little  and  unworthy  land  it  seemed, 

And  yet  the  more  of  Asagard  I  dreamed, 

And  worthier  seemed  the  ancient  faith  of  praise. 

But  now,  but  now — when  one  of  all  those  days 
Like  Lazarus'  finger  on  my  heart  should  be 
Breaking  the  fiery  fixed  eternity, 
But  for  one  moment  —  could  I  see  once  more 
The  gray-roofed  seaport  sloping  towards  the  shore, 
Or  note  the  brown  boats  standing  in  from  sea, 
Or  the  great  dromond  swinging  from  the  quay, 
Or  in  the  beech-woods  watch  the  screaming  jay 
Shoot  up  betwixt  the  tall  trunks,  smooth  and  gray,  - 
Yea,  could  I  see  the  days  before  distress 
When  very  longing  was  but  happiness. 

Within  our  house  there  was  a  Breton  squire 
Well  learned,  who  failed  not  to  fan  the  fire 
That  evermore  unholpen  burned  in  me 
Strange  lands  and  things  beyond  belief  to  see  ; 
Much  lore  of  many  lands  this  Breton  knew  ; 
And  for  one  tale  I  told,  he  told  me  two. 
He,  counting  Asagard  a  new-told  thing, 
Yet  spoke  of  gardens  ever  blossoming 
Across  the  western  sea  where  none  grew  old, 
E'en  as  the  books  at  Micklegarth  had  told, 
And  said  moreover  that  an  English  knight 
Had  had  the  Earthly  Paradise  in  sight, 
And  heard  the  songs  of  those  that  dwelt  therein, 
But  entered  not,  being  hindered  by  his  sin. 
Shortly,  so  much  of  this  and  that  he  said 
That  in  my  heart  the  sharp  barb  entered, 
And  like  real  life  would  empty  stories  seem, 
And  life  from  day  to  day  an  empty  dream. 


PROLOGUE.— THE   WANDERERS. 

Another  man  there  was,  a  Swabian  priest, 
Who  knew  the  maladies  of  man  and  beast, 
And  what  things  helped  them  ;  he  the  stone  still  sought 
Whereby  base  metal  into  gold  is  brought, 
And  strove  to  gain  the  precious  draught  whereby 
Men  live  midst  mortal  men  yet  never  die  ; 
Tales  of  the  Kaiser  Redbeard  could  he  tell 
Who  neither  went  to  Heaven  nor  yet  to  Hell, 
When  from  that  fight  upon  the  Asian  plain 
He  vanished,  but  still  lives  to  come  again 
Men  know  not  how  or  when  ;  but  I  listening 
Unto  this  tale  thought  it  a  certain  thing 
That  in  some  hidden  vale  of  Swithiod 
Across  the  golden  pavement  still  he  trod. 

But  while  our  longing  for  such  things  so  grew, 
And  ever  more  and  more  we  deemed  them  true, 
Upon  the  land  a  pestilence  there  fell 
Unheard  of  yet  in  any  chronicle, 
And,  as  the  people  died  full  fast  of  it, 
With  these  two  men  it  chanced  me  once  to  sit, 
This  learned  squire  whose  name  was  Nicholas, 
And  Swabian  Laurence,  as  our  manner  was  ; 
For  could  we  help  it  scarcely  did  we  part 
From  dawn  to  dusk  :  so  heavy,  sad  at  heart, 
We  from  the  castle  yard  beheld  the  bay 
Upon  that  ne'er-to-be-forgotten  day  ; 
Little  we  said  amidst  that  dreary  mood, 
And  certes  naught  that  we  could  say  was  good. 

It  was  a  bright  September  afternoon, 
The  parched-up  beech-trees  would  be  yellowing  soon  ; 
The  yellow  flowers  grown  deeper  with  the  sun 
Were  letting  fall  their  petals  one  by  one  ; 
No  wind  there  was,  a  haze  was  gathering  o'er 
The  farthest  bound  of  the  faint  yellow  shore  ; 
And  in  the  oily  waters  of  the  bay 
Scarce  moving  aught  some  fisher-cobles  lay, 
And  all  seemed  peace  ;  and  had  been  peace  indeed 
But  that  we  young  men  of  our  life  had  need, 
And  to  our  listening  ears  a  sound  was  borne 
That  made  the  sunlight  wretched  and  forlorn,  — 
The  heavy  tolling  of  the  minster  bell,  — 
And  nigher  yet  a  ^inkling  sound  did  tell 
That  through  the  streets  they  bore  our  Saviour  Christ 
By  dying  lips  in  anguish  to  be  kissed. 


8  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

At  last  spoke  Nicholas  :  "  How  long  shall  we 
Abide  here,  looking  forth  into  the  sea 
Expecting  when  our  turn  shall  come  to  die  ? 
Fair  fellows,  will  ye  come  with  me  and  try 
Now  at  our  worst  that  long-desired  quest, 
Now  —  when  our  worst  is  death,  and  life  our  best" 

"  Nay,  but  tliou  know'st,"  I  said,  "  that  I  but  wait 
The  coming  of  some  man,  the  turn  of  fate, 
To  make  this  voyage,  — but  I  die  meanwhile, 
For  I  am  poor,  though  my  blood  be  not  vile, 
Nor  yet  for  all  his  lore  doth  Laurence  hold 
Within  his  crucibles  aught  like  to  gold ; 
And  what  hast  thou,  whose  father,  driven  forth 
By  Charles  of  Blois,  found  shelter  in  the  North  ? 
But  little  riches  as  I  needs  must  deem. " 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  tilings  are  better  than  they  seem, 
For  'neath  my  bed  an  iron  chest  I  have 
That  hokleth  things  I  have  made  shift  to  save 
E'en  for  this  end  ;  moreover,  hark  to  this, 
In  the  next  firth  a  fair  long  ship  there  is 
Well  victualled,  ready  even  now  for  sea, 
And  I  may  say  it  'longeth  unto  me  ; 
Since  Marcus  Erling,  late  its  owner,  lies 
Dead  at  the  end  of  many  miseries, 
And  little  Kirstin,  as  thou  well  mayst  know, 
Would  be  content  throughout  the  world  to  go 
If  I  but  took  her  hand,  and  now  still  more 
Hath  heart  to  leave  this  poor  death-stricken  shore. 
Therefore  my  gold  shall  buy  us  Bordeaux  swords 
And  Bordeaux  wine  as  we  go  oceanwards. 

"  What  say  ye,  will  ye  go  with  me  to-night, 
Setting  your  faces  to  undreamed  delight, 
Turning  your  backs  unto  this  troublous  hell, 
Or  is  the  time  too  short  to  say  farewell  ?  " 

"Not  so,"  I  said,  "rather  would  I  depart 
Now  while  thou  speakest,  never  has  my  heart 
Been  set  on  anything  within  this  land." 

Then  said  the  Swabian  :  "  Let  us  now  take  hand 
And  swear  to  follow  evermore  this  quest, 
Till  death  or  life  have  set  our  hearts  at  rest." 

So  with  joined  hands  we  swore,  and  Nicholas  said  : 
"To-night,  fair  friends,  be  ye  apparelled 
To  leave  this  land,  bring  all  the  arms  ye  can 
And  such  men  as  ye  trust,  my  own  good  man 


PROLOGUE.  —  THE  WANDERERS. 

Guards  the  small  postern  looking  towards  St.  Bride, 
And  good  it  were  ye  should  not  be  espied, 
Since  mayhap  freely  ye  should  not  go  hence, 
Thou  Rolf  in  special,  for  this  pestilence 
Makes  all  men  hard  and  cruel,  nor  are  they 
Willing  that  folk  should  'scape  if  they  must  stay  : 
Be  wise  ;  I  bid  you  for  a  while  farewell, 
Leave  ye  this  stronghold  when  St.  Peter's  bell 
Strikes  midnight,  all  will  surely  then  be  still, 
And  I  will  bide  you  at  King  Tryggve's  hill 
Outside  the  city  gates. " 

Each  went  his  way 

Therewith,  and  I  the  remnant  of  that  day 
Gained  for  the  quest  three  men  that  I  deemed  true, 
And  did  such  other  things  as  I  must  do, 
And  still  was  ever  listening  for  the  chime 
Half  maddened  by  the  lazy  lapse  of  time, 
Yea,  scarce  I  thought  indeed  that  I  should  live 
Till  the  great  tower  the  joyful  sound  should  give 
That  set  us  free  :  and  so  the  hours  went  past, 
Till  startled  by  the  echoing  clang  at  last 
That  told  of  midnight,  armed  from  head  to  heel 
Down  to  the  open  postern  did  I  steal, 
Bearing  small  wealth,  —  this  sword  that  yet  hangs  here 
Worn  thin  and  narrow  with  so  many  a  year, 
My  father's  axe  that  from  Byzantium, 
With  some  few  gems  my  pouch  yet  held,  had  come, 
Naught  else  that  shone  with  silver  or  with  gold. 

But  by  the  postern  gate  could  I  behold 
Laurence  the  priest  all  armed  as  if  for  war, 
And  my  three  men  were  standing  not  right  far 
From  off  the  town-wall,  having  some  small  store 
Of  arms  and  furs  and  raiment :  then  once  more 
I  turned,  and  saw  the  autumn  moonlight  fall 
Upon  the  new-built  bastions  of  the  wall, 
Strange  with  black  shadow  and  gray  flood  of  light, 
And  farther  off  I  saw  the  lead  shine  bright 
On  tower  and  turret-roof  against  the  sky, 
And  looking  down  I  saw  the  old  town  lie 
Black  in  the  shade  of  the  o'erhanging  hill, 
Stricken  with  death,  and  dreary,  but  all  still 
Until  it  reached  the  water  of  the  bay, 
That  in  the  dead  night  smote  against  the  quay 
Not  all  unheard,  though  there  was  little  wind. 
But  as  I  turned  to  leave  the  place  behind, 
The  wind's  light  sound,  the  slowly  falling  swell, 


.o  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Were  hushed  at  once  by  that  shrill-tinkling  bell, 
That,  in  that  stillness  jarring  on  mine  ears, 
With  sudden  jangle  checked  the  rising  tears, 
And  now  the  freshness  of  the  open  sea 
Seemed  ease  and  joy  and  very  life  to  me. 

So  greeting  my  new  mates  with  little  sound, 
We  made  good  haste  to  reach  King  Tryggve's  mound, 
And  there  the  Breton  Nicholas  beheld, 
Who  by  the  hand  fair  Kirstin  Erling  held, 
And  round  about  them  twenty  men  there  stood, 
Of  whom  the  more  part  on  the  holy  rood 
Were  sworn  till  death  to  follow  up  the  quest, 
And  Kirstin  was  the  mistress  of  the  rest. 

Again  betwixt  us  was  there  little  speech, 
But  swiftly  did  we  set  on  toward  the  beach, 
And  coming  there  our  keel,  the  Fighting  Man, 
We  boarded,  and  the  long  oars  out  we  ran, 
And  swept  from  out  the  firth,  and  sped  so  well 
That  scarcely  could  we  hear  St.  Peter's  bell 
Toll  one,  although  the  light  wind  blew  from  land ; 
Then  hoisting  sail  southward  we  'gan  to  stand, 
And  much  I  joyed  beneath  the  moon  to  see 
The  lessening  land  that  might  have  been  to  me 
A  kindly  giver  of  wife,  child,  and  friend, 
And  happy  life,  or  at  the  worser  end 
A  quiet  grave  till  doomsday  rend  the  earth. 

Night  passed,  day  dawned,  and  we  grew  full  of  mirth 
As  with  the  ever-rising  morning  wind 
Still  farther  lay  our  threatened  death  behind, 
Or  so  we  thought  :  some  eighty  men  we  were, 
Of  whom  but  fifty  knew  the  shipman's  gear, 
The  rest  were  uplanders  ;  midst  such  of  these 
As  knew  not  of  our  quest,  with  promises 
Went  Nicholas  dealing  florins  round  about, 
With  still  a  fresh  tale  for  each  new  man's  doubt, 
Till  all  were  fairly  won  or  seemed  to  be 
To  that  strange  desperate  voyage  o'er  the  sea. 

Now  if  ye  ask  me  from  what  land  I  come 
With  all  my  folly,  —  Viken  is  my  home, 
Where  Tryggve  Olaf's  son  and  Olaf's  sire 
Lit  to  the  ancient  Gods  the  sacred  fire, 
Unto  whose  line  am  I  myself  akin, 
Through  him  who  Astrid  in  old  time  did  win, 
King  Olaf's  widow  :  let  all  that  go  by, 
Since  I  was  born  at  least  to  misery. 


PROLOGUE.— THE   WANDERERS. 

Now  Nicholas  came  to  Laurence  and  to  me 
To  talk  of  what  he  deemed  our  course  should  be, 
To  whom  agape  I  listened,  since  I  knew 
Naught  but  old  tales,  nor  aught  of  false  and  true 
Amid  these,  for  but  one  kind  seemed  to  be 
The  Vineland  voyage  o'er  the  unknown  sea 
And  Swegder's  search  for  Godheim,  when  he  found 
The  entrance  to  a  new  world  underground ; 
But  Nicholas  o'er  many  books  had  pored 
And  this  and  that  thing  in  his  mind  had  stored, 
And  idle  tales  from  true  report  he  knew. 
—  Would  he  were  living  now,  to  tell  to  you 
This  story  that  my  feeble  lips  must  tell ! 

Now  he  indeed  of  Vineland  knew  full  well, 
Both  from  my  tales  where  truth  perchance  touched  lies, 
And  from  the  ancient  written  histories  ; 
But  now  he  said  :   "  The  land  was  good  enow 
That  Leif  the  son  of  Eric  came  unto, 
But  this  was  not  our  world,  nay  scarce  could  be 
The  door  into  a  place  so  heavenly 
As  that  we  seek,  therefore  my  rede  is  this, 
That  we  to  gain  that  sure  abode  of  bliss 
Risk  dying  in  an  unknown  landless  sea ; 
Although  full  certainly  it  seems  to  me 
All  that  we  long  for  there  we  needs  must  find. 

"Therefore,  O  friends,  if  ye  are  of  my  mind, 
When  we  are  passed  the  French  and  English  strait 
Let  us  seek  news  of  that  desired  gate 
To  immortality  and  blessed  rest 
Within  the  landless  waters  of  the  west, 
But  still  a  little  to  the  southward  steer. 
Certes  no  Greenland  winter  waits  us  there, 
No  year-long  night,  but  rather  we  shall  find 
Spice-trees  set  waving  by  the  western  wind, 
And  gentle  folk  who  know  no  guile  at  least, 
And  many  a  bright-winged  bird  and  soft-skinned  beast, 
For  gently  must  the  year  upon  them  fall. 

"Now  since  the  Fighting  Man  is  over  small 
To  hold  the  mighty  stores  that  we  shall  need, 
To  turn  as  now  to  Bremen  is  my  rede, 
And  there  to  buy  a  new  keel  with  my  gold, 
And  fill  her  with  such  things  as  she  may  hold  ; 
And  thou  thenceforward,  Rolf,  her  lord  shalt  be, 
Since  thou  art  not  unskilled  upon  the  sea." 

But  unto  me  most  fair  his  saying  seemed, 


a-  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

For  of  a.  land  unknown  to  all  I  dreamed, 
And  certainly  by  some  warm  sea  I  thought 
That  we  the  soonest  thereto  should  be  brought 
Therefore  with  mirth  enow  passed  every  day 
Till  in  the  Weser  stream  at  last  we  lay 
Hearkening  the  bells  of  Bremen  ring  to  mass, 
For  on  a  Sunday  morn  our  coming  was. 
There  in  a  while  to  chaffer  did  we  fall, 
And  of  the  merchants  bought  a  dromond  tall 
They  called  the  Rose-Garland,  and  her  we  stored 
With  such  like  victuals  as  we  well  might  hoard, 
And  arms  and  raiment ;  also  there  we  gained 
Some  few  men  more  by  stories  true  and  feigned, 
And  by  that  time,  now  needing  naught  at  all, 
We  weighed,  well  armed,  with  good  hope  not  to  fall 
Into  the  hands  of  rovers  of  the  sea, 
Since  at  that  time  had  we  heard  certainly 
Edward  of  England  drew  all  men  to  him, 
And  that  his  fleet  held  whatso  keel  could  swim 
From  Jutland  to  Land's  End  ;  for  all  that,  we 
Thought  it  but  wise  to  keep  the  open  sea 
And  give  to  warring  lands  a  full  wide  berth ; 
Since  unto  all  of  us  our  lives  seemed  worth 
A  better  purchase  than  they  erst  had  been. 

So  it  befell  that  we  no  sail  had  seen 
Till  the  sixth  day  at  morn,  when  we  drew  near 
The  land  at  last  and  saw  the  French  coast  clear,  — 
The  high  land  over  Guines  our  pilot  said. 
There  at  the  daybreak,  we,  apparelled 
Like  merchant  ships  in  seeming,  now  perforce 
Must  meet  a  navy  drawing  thwart  our  course, 
Whose  sails  and  painted  hulls  not  far  away 
Rolled  slowly  o'er  the  leaden  sea  and  gray, 
Beneath  the  night-clouds  by  no  sun  yet  cleared  ; 
But  we  with  anxious  hearts  this  navy  neared, 
For  we  sailed  deep  and  heavy,  and  to  fly 
Would  naught  avail  since  we  were  drawn  so  nigh, 
And,  fighting,  must  we  meet  but  certain  death. 

Soon  with  amazement  did  I  hold  my  breath 
As  from  the  wide  bows  of  the  Rose-Garland, 
I  saw  the  sun,  new  risen  o'er  the  land, 
Light  up  the  shield-hung  side  of  keel  on  keel, 
Their  sails  like  knights'  coats,  and  the  points  of  steel 
Glittering  from  waist  and  castle  and  high  top. 
And  well  indeed  awhile  my  heart  might  stop 


PROLOGUE.— THE   WANDERERS.  13 

As  heading  all  the  crowded  van  I  saw, 
Huge,  swelling  out  without  a  crease  or  flaw, 
A  sail  where,  on  the  quartered  blue  and  red, 
In  silk  and  gold  right  well  apparelled, 
The  lilies  gleamed,  the  thin  gaunt  leopards  glared 
Out  toward  the  land  where  even  now  there  flared 
The  dying  beacons.     Ah,  with  such  an  one 
Could  I  from  town  to  town  of  France  have  run 
To  end  my  life  upon  some  glorious  day 
Where  stand  the  banners  brighter  than  the  May 
Above  the  deeds  of  men,  as  certainly 
This  king  himself  has  full  oft  wished  to  die. 

And  who  knows  now  beneath  what  field  he  lies, 
Amidst  what  mighty  bones  of  enemies  ? 
Ah,  surely  it  had  been  a  glorious  thing 
From  such  a  field  to  lead  forth  such  a  king, 
That  he  might  live  again  with  happy  days, 
And  more  than  ever  win  the  people's  praise. 
Nor  had  it  been  an  evil  lot  to  stand 
On  the  worse  side,  with  people  of  the  land 
'Gainst  such  a  man,  when  even  this  might  fall, 
That  it  might  be  my  luck  some  day  to  call 
My  battle-cry  o'er  his  low  lying  head, 
And  I  be  evermore  remembered. 

Well  as  we  neared  and  neared,  such  thoughts  I  had 
Whereby  perchance  I  was  the  less  a-drad 
Of  what  might  come,  and  at  the  worst  we  deemed 
They  would  not  scorn  our  swords ;  but  as  I  dreamed 
Of  fair  towns  won  and  desperate  feats  of  war, 
And  my  old  follies  now  were  driven  afar 
By  that  most  glorious  sight,  a  loud  halloo 
Came  down  the  wind,  and  one  by  me  who  knew 
The  English  tongue  cried  that  they  bade  us  run 
Close  up  and  board,  nor  was  there  any  one 
Who  durst  say  nay  to  that,  so  presently 
Both  keels  were  underneath  the  big  ship's  lee ; 
While  Nicholas  and  I  together  passed 
Betwixt  the  crowd  of  archers  by  the  mast 
Unto  the  poop,  where  'neath  his  canopy 
The  king  sat,  eying  us  as  we  drew  nigh. 

Broad-browed  he  was,  hook-nosed,  with  wide  gray  eyes 
No  longer  eager  for  the  coming  prize, 
But  keen  and  steadfast,  many  an  ageing  line, 
Half  hidden  by  his  sweeping  beard  and  fine, 
Ploughed  his  thin  cheeks,  his  hair  was  more  than  gray, 


14  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE, 

And  like  to  one  he  seemed  whose  better  day 

Is  over  to  himself,  though  foolish  fame 

Shouts  louder  year  by  year  his  empty  name. 

Unarmed  he  was,  nor  clad  upon  that  morn 

Much  like  a  king,  an  ivory  hunting-horn 

Was  slung  about  him,  rich  with  gems  and  gold, 

And  a  great  white  gerfalcon  did  he  hold 

Upon  his  fist ;  before  his  feet  there  sat 

A  scrivener  making  notes  of  this  or  that 

As  the  king  bade  him,  and  behind  his  chair 

His  captains  stood  in  armor  rich  and  fair ; 

And  by  his  side  unhelmed,  but  armed,  stood  one 

I  deemed  none  other  than  the  prince  his  son ; 

For  in  a  coat  of  England  was  he  clad, 

And  on  his  head  a  coronel  he  had. 

Tall  was  he,  slim,  made  apt  for  feats  of  war, 

A  splendid  lord,  yea,  he  seemed  prouder  far 

Than  was  his  sire,  yet  his  eyes  therewithal 

With  languid  careless  glance  seemed  wont  to  fall 

On  things  about,  as  though  he  deemed  that  naught 

Could  fail  unbidden  to  do  all  his  thought. 

But  close  by  him  stood  a  war-beaten  knight, 

Whose  coat  of  war  bore  on  a  field  of  white 

A  sharp  red  pile,  and  he  of  all  men  there 

Methought  would  be  the  one  that  I  should  fear 

If  I  led  men. 

But  midst  my  thoughts  I  heard 
The  king's  voice  as  the  high  seat  now  we  neared, 
And  knew  his  speech  because  in  French  it  was, 
That  erewhile  I  had  learnt  of  Nicholas. 
"  Fair  sirs,  what  are  ye?  for  on  this  one  day, 
I  rule  the  narrow  seas  mine  ancient  way. 
Me  seemeth  in  the  highest  bark  I  know 
The  Flemish  handiwork,  but  yet  ye  show 
Unlike  to  merchants,  though  your  ships  are  deep 
And  slowly  through  the  water  do  ye  creep  ; 
And  thou,  fair  sir,  seem'st  journeying  from  the  north 
With  peltries  Bordeaux -ward  ?     Nay  then  go  forth, 
Thou  wilt  not  harm  us  :  yet  if  ye  be  men 
Well-born  and  warlike,  these  are  fair  days,  when 
The  good  heart  wins  more  than  the  merchant  keeps, 
And  safest  still  in  steel  the  young  head  sleeps ; 
And  here  are  banners  thou  mayest  stand  beneath 
And  not  be  shamed  either  in  life  or  death,  — 
What,  man,  thou  reddenest,  wouldst  thou  say  me  no, 
If  underneath  my  banner  thou  shouldst  go  ? 


PROLOGUE.— THE    WANDERERS.  15 

Nay,  thou  mayest  speak,  or  let  thy  fellow  say 
What  he  is  stuffed  with,  be  it  yea  or  nay." 
For  as  he  spoke  my  fellow  gazed  on  me 
With  something  like  to  fear,  and  hurriedly 
As  I  bent  forward,  thrust  me  on  one  side, 
And  scarce  the  king's  last  word  would  he  abide 
But  'gan  to  say  :  "  Sire,  from  the  north  we  come, 
Though  as  for  me  far  nigher  is  my  home. 
Thy  foes,  my  Lord,  drove  out  my  kin  and  me, 
Ere  yet  thine  armed  hand  was  upon  the  sea  ; 
Chandos  shall  surely  know  my  father's  name, 
Loys  of  Dinan,  which  ill-luck,  sword,  and  flame, 
Lord  Charles  of  Blois,  the  French  king,  and  the  pest 
In  this  and  that  land  now  have  laid  to  rest, 
Except  for  me  alone.     And  now,  my  Lord, 
If  I  shall  seem  to  speak  an  idle  word 
To  such  as  thou  art,  pardon  me  therefore ; 
But  we,  part  taught  by  ancient  books  and  lore, 
And  part  by  what,  nor  yet  so  long  ago, 
This  man's  own  countrymen  have  come  to  do, 
Have  gathered  hope  to  find  across  the  sea 
A  land  where  we  shall  gain  felicity 
Past  tongue  of  man  to  tell  of;  and  our  life 
Is  not  so  sweet  here,  or  so  free  from  strife, 
Or  glorious  deeds  so  common,  that,  if  we 
Should  think  a  certain  path  at  last  to  see 
To  such  a  place,  men  then  could  think  us  wise 
To  turn  away  therefrom,  and  shut  our  eyes, 
Because  at  many  a  turning  here  and  there 
Swift  death  might  lurk,  or  unaccustomed  fear. 

0  King,  I  pray  thee  in  this  young  man's  face 
Flash  not  thy  banner,  nor  with  thy  frank  grace 
Tear  him  from  life  ;  but  go  thy  way,  let  us 
Find  hidden  death,  or  life  more  glorious 
Than  thou  durst  think  of,  knowing  not  the  gate 
Whereby  to  flee  from  that  all-shadowing  fate. 

"  O  King,  since  I  could  walk  a  yard  or  twain, 
Or  utter  anything  but  cries  of  pain, 
Death  was  before  me  ;  yea,  on  the  first  morn 
That  I  remember  aught,  among  the  com 

1  wandered  with  my  nurse,  behind  us  lay 

The  walls  of  Vannes,  white  in  the  summer  day, 
The  reapers  whistled,  the  brown  maidens  sung, 
As  on  the  wain  the  topmost  sheaf  they  hung, 
The  swallow  wheeled  above  high  up  in  air, 
And  midst  the  labor  all  was  sweet  and  fair ; 


1 6  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

When  on  the  winding  road  between  the  fields 

I  saw  a  glittering  line  of  spears  and  shields, 

And  pleased  therewith  called  out  to  some  one  by 

E'en  as  I  could  ;  he  scarce  for  fear  could  cry, 

'  The  French !  the  French  ! '  and  turned  and  ran  his  best 

Toward  the  town  gates,  and  we  ran  with  the  rest, 

I  wailing  loud  who  knew  not  why  at  all, 

But  ere  we  reached  the  gates  ray  nurse  did  fall, 

I  with  her,  and  I  wondered  much  that  she 

Just  as  she  fell  should  still  lie  quietly  ; 

Nor  did  the  colored  feathers  that  I  found 

Stuck  in  her  side,  as  frightened  I  crawled  round, 

Tell  me  the  tale,  though  I  was  sore  afeard 

At  all  the  cries  and  wailing  that  I  heard, 

"  I  say,  my  Lord,  that  arrow-flight  now  seems 
The  first  thing  rising  clear  from  feeble  dreams, 
And  that  was  death  ;  and  the  next  thing  was  death, 
For  through  our  house  all  spoke  with  bated  breath 
And  wore  black  clothes,  withal  they  came  to  me 
A  little  child,  and  did  off  hastily 
My  shoon  and  hosen,  and  with  that  I  heard 
The  sound  of  doleful  singing,  and  afeard 
Forebore  to  question,  when  I  saw  the  feet 
Of  all  were  bare,  like  mine,  as  toward  the  street 
We  passed,  and  joined  a  crowd  in  such  like  guise 
Who  through  the  town  sang  woful  litanies, 
Pressing  the  stones  with  feet  unused  and  soft, 
And  bearing  images  of  saints  aloft, 
In  hope  'gainst  hope  to  save  us  from  the  rage 
Of  that  fell  pest,  that  as  an  unseen  cage 
Hemmed  France  about,  and  me  and  such  as  me 
They  made  partakers  of  their  misery. 

"Lo,  death  again,  and  if  the  time  served  now 
Full  many  another  picture  could  I  show 
Of  death  and  death,  and  men  who  ever  strive 
Through  every  misery  at  least  to  live. 
The  priest  within  the  minster  preaches  it, 
And  brooding  o'er  it  doth  the  wise  man  sit 
Letting  life's  joys  go  by.     Well,  blame  me  then, 
If  I  who  love  this  changing  life  of  men, 
And  every  minute  of  whose  life  were  bliss 
Too  great  to  long  for  greater,  but  for  this,  — 
Mock  me,  who  take  this  death-bound  life  in  hand 
And  risk  the  rag  to  find  a  happy  land, 
Where  at  the  worst  death  is  so  far  away 
No  man  need  think  of  him  from  day  to  day,  — 


PROLOGUE.  — THE    WANDERERS.  17 

Mock  me,  but  let  us  go,  for  I  am  fain 

Our  restless  road,  the  landless  sea,  to  gain." 

His  words  nigh  made  me  weep,  but  while  he  spoke 
I  noted  how  a  mocking  smile  just  broke 
The  thin  line  of  the  Prince's  lips,  and  he 
Who  carried  the  afore-named  armory 
Puffed  out  his  wind-beat  cheeks  and  whistled  low  : 
But  the  king  smiled,  and  said  :   "  Can  it  be  so  ? 
1  know  not,  and  ye  twain  are  such  as  find 
The  things  whereto  old  kings  must  needs  be  blind. 
For  you  the  world  is  wide,  —  but  not  for  me, 
Who  once  had  dreams  of  one  great  victory 
Wherein  that  world  lay  vanquished  by  my  throne, 
And  now,  the  victor  in  so  many  an  one, 
Find  that  in  Asia  Alexander  died 
And  will  not  live  again ;  the  world  is  wide 
For  you  I  say,  —  for  me  a  narrow  space 
Betwixt  the  four  walls  of  a  fighting  place. 

"Poor  man,  why  should  I  stay  thee  ?  live  thy  fill 
Of  that  fair  life  wherein  thou  seest  no  ill 
But  fear  of  that  fair  rest  I  hope  to  win 
One  day,  when  I  have  purged  me  of  my  sin. 

"  Farewell,  it  yet  may  hap  that  I  a  king 
Shall  be  remembered  but  by  this  one  thing, 
That  on  the  morn  before  ye  crossed  the  sea 
Ye  gave  and  took  in  common  talk  with  me  ; 
But  with  this  ring  keep  memory  of  the  mom, 
O  Breton,  and  thou  Northman,  by  this  horn 
Remember  me,  who  am  of  Odin's  blood, 
As  heralds  say  :  moreover  it  were  good 
Ye  had  some  lines  of  writing  'neath  my  seal, 
Or  ye  might  find  it  somewhat  hard  to  deal 
With  some  of  mine,  who  pass  not  for  a  word 
Whate'er  they  deem  may  hold  a  hostile  sword." 

So  as  we  kneeled  this  royal  man  to  thank, 
A  clerk  brought  forth  two  passes  sealed  and  blank, 
And  when  we  had  them,  with  the  horn  and  ring, 
With  few  words  did  we  leave  the  noble  king, 
And  as  adown  the  gangway  steps  we  passed, 
We  saw  the  yards  swing  creaking  round  the  mast, 
And  heard  the  shipman's  ho,  for  one  by  one 
The  van  outsailed  before,  by  him  had  run 
E'en  as  he  stayed  for  us,  and  now  indeed 
Of  his  main  battle  must  he  take  good  heed  : 
2 


1 8  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

But  as  from  off  the  mighty  side  we  pushed, 
And  in  between  us  the  green  water  rushed, 
I  heard  his  scalds  strike  up  triumphantly 
Some  song  that  told  not  of  the  weary  sea, 
But  rather  of  the  mead  and  fair  green-wood, 
And  as  we  leaned  o'er  to  the  wind,  I  stood 
And  saw  the  bright  sails  leave  us,  and  soon  lost 
The  pensive  music  by  the  strong  wind  tossed 
From  wave  to  wave,  then  turning  I  espied 
Glittering  and  white  upon  the  weather  side 
The  land  he  came  from,  o'er  the  bright  green  sea, 
Scarce  duller  than  the  land  upon  our  lee, 
For  now  the  clouds  had  fled  before  the  sun 
And  the  bright  autumn  day  was  well  begun. 
Then  I  cried  out  for  music  too,  and  heard 
The  minstrels  sing  some  well-remembered  word, 
And  while  they  sung,  before  me  still  I  gazed, 
Silent  with  thought  of  many  things,  and  mazed 
With  many  longings  ;  when  I  looked  again 
To  see  those  lands,  naught  but  the  restless  plain 
With  some  far-off  small  fisher-boat  was  left ; 
A  little  hour  forevermore  had  reft 
The  sight  of  Europe  from  my  helpless  eyes, 
And  crowned  my  store  of  hapless  memories. 

THE  ELDER  OF  THE  CITY. 

Sit,  friends,  and  tell  your  tale  which  seems  to  us 
Shall  be  a  strange  tale  and  a  piteous, 
Nor  shall  it  lack  our  pity  for  its  woe, 
Nor  ye  due  thanks  for  all  the  things  ye  show 
Of  kingdoms  nigh  forgot  that  once  were  great, 
And  small  lands  come  to  glorious  estate.  - 

But,  sirs,  ye  faint,  behold  these  maidens  stand 
Bearing  the  blood  of  this  our  sunburnt  land 
In  well-wrought  cups,  —  drink  now  of  this,  that  while 
Ye  poor  folk  wandered,  hid  from  fortune's  smile 
Abode  your  coming,  hidden  none  the  less 
Below  the  earth  from  summer's  happiness. 

THE  WANDERERS. 

Fair  sirs,  we  thank  you,  hoping  we  have  come 
Through  many  wanderings  to  a  quiet  home 
Befitting  dying  men  —  Good  health  and  peace 
To  you  and  to  this  land,  and  fair  increase 
Of  everything  that  ye  can  wish  to  have ! 


'PROLOGUE.  — THE    WANDERERS.  19 

But  to  my  tale  :  A  fair  southeast  wind  drave 
Our  ships  for  ten  days  more,  and  ever  we 
Sailed  mile  for  mile  together  steadily, 
But  the  tenth  clay  I  saw  the  Fighting  Man 
Brought  up  to  wait  me,  and  when  nigh  I  ran 
Her  captain  hailed  me,  saying  that  he  thought 
That  we  too  far  to  northward  had  been  brought, 
And  we  must  do  our  southing  while  we  could ; 
So  as  his  will  to  me  was  ever  good 
In  such  like  things,  we  changed  our  course  straightway, 
And  as  we  might  till  the  eleventh  day 
Stretched  somewhat  south,  then  baffling  grew  the  wind, 
But  as  we  still  were  ignorant  and  blind, 
Nor  knew  our  port,  we  sailed  on  helplessly 
O'er  a  smooth  sea,  beneath  a  lovely  sky, 
And  westward  ever,  but  no  signs  of  land 
All  through  these  days  we  saw  on  either  hand, 
Nor  indeed  hoped  to  see,  because  we  knew 
Some  watery  desert  we  must  journey  through, 
That  had  been  huge  enough  to  keep  all  men 
From  gaining  that  we  sought  for  until  then. 

Yet  when  I  grew  downcast,  I  did  not  fail 
To  call  to  mind,  how  from  our  land  set  sail 
A  certain  man,  and,  after  he  had  passed 
Through  many  unknown  seas,  did  reach  at  last 
A  rocky  island's  shore  one  foggy  day, 
And  while  a  little  off  the  land  he  lay 
As  in  a  dream  he  heard  the  folk  call  out 
In  his  own  tongue,  but  mazed  and  all  in  doubt 
He  turned  therefrom,  and  afterwards  in  strife 
With  winds  and  waters,  much  of  precious  life 
He  wasted  utterly,  for  when  again 
He  reached  his  port  after  long  months  of  pain, 
Unto  Biarmeland  he  chanced  to  go, 
And  there  the  isle  he  left  so  long  ago 
He  knew  at  once,  where  many  Northmen  were. 

And  such  a  fate  I  could  not  choose  but  fear 
For  us  sometimes  ;  and  sometimes  when  at  night 
Beneath  the  moon  I  watched  the  foam  fly  white 
From  off  our  bows,  and  thought  how  weak  and  small 
Showed  the  Rose-Garland's  mast  that  looked  so  tall 
Beside  the  quays  of  Bremen  ;  when  I  saw 
With  measured  steps  the  watch  on  toward  me  draw, 
And  in  the  moon  the  helmsman's  peering  face, 
And  'twixt  the  cordage  strained  across  my  place 


THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE.  ' 

Beheld  the  white  sail  of  the  Fighting  Man 

Lead  down  the  pathway  of  the  moonlight  wan,  — 

Then  when  the  ocean  seemed  so  measureless 

The  very  sky  itself  might  well  be  less, 

When  midst  the  changeless  piping  of  the  wind, 

The  intertwined  slow  waves  pressed  on  behind, 

Rolled  o'er  our  wake  and  made  it  naught  again, 

Then  would  it  seem  an  ill  thing  and  a  vain 

To  leave  the  hopeful  world  that  we  had  known, 

When  all  was  o'er,  hopeless  to  die  alone 

Within  this  changeless  world  of  waters  gray. 

But  hope  would  come  back  to  me  with  the  day, 
The  talk  of  men,  the  viol's  quivering  strings, 
Would  bring  my  heart  to  think  of  better  things. 
Nor  were  our  folk  down-hearted  through  all  this  ; 
For  partly  with  the  hope  of  that  vague  bliss 
Were  they  made  happy,  partly  the  soft  air 
And  idle  days  wherethrough  we  then  did  fare 
Were  joy  enow  to  rude  seafaring  folk. 

But  this  our  ease  at  last  a  tempest  broke 
And  we  must  scud  before  it  helplessly, 
Fearing  each  moment  lest  some  climbing  sea 
Should  topple  o'er  our  poop  and  end  us  there. 
Nathless  we  'scaped,  and  still  the  wind  blew  fair 
For  what  we  deemed  was  our  right  course ;  but  when, 
On  the  third  eve,  we,  as  delivered  men, 
Took  breath  because  the  gale  was  now  blown  out, 
And  from  our  rolling  deck  we  looked  about 
Over  the  ridges  of  the  dark  gray  seas, 
And  saw  the  sun,  setting  in  golden  ease, 
Smile  out  at  last  from  out  the  just-cleared  sky 
Over  the  ocean's  weltering  misery. 
Still  nothing  of  the  Fighting  Man  we  saw, 
Which  last  was  seen  when  the  first  gusty  flaw 
Smote  them  and  us ;  but  nothing  would  avail 
To  mend  the  thing,  so  onward  did  we  sail, 
But  slowly,  through  the  moonlit  night  and  fair, 
With  all  sails  set  that  we  could  hoist  in  air, 
And  rolling  heavily  at  first,  for  still 
Each  wave  came  on  a  glittering  rippled  hill, 
And,  lifting  us  aloft,  showed  from  its  height 
The  waste  of  waves,  and  then  to  lightless  night 
Dropped  us  adown,  and  much  ado  had  we 
To  ride  unspilt  the  wallow  of  the  sea. 

But  the  sun  rose  up  in  a  cloudless  sky, 


PROLOGUE.  — THE    WANDERERS,  21 

And  from-  the  east  the  wind  blew  cheerily, 

And  southwest  still  we  steered  ;  till  on  a  day 

As  nigh  the  mast  deep  in  dull  thoughts  I  lay, 

I  heard  a  shout,  and  turning  could  I  see 

One  of  the  shipmen  hurrying  fast  to  me, 

With  something  in  his  hand,  who  .cast  adown 

Close  to  my  hand  a  mass  of  sea- weed  brown 

Without  more  words,  then  knew  I  certainly 

The  wrack,  that  oft  before  I  had  seen  lie 

In  sandy  bights  of  Norway,  and  that  eve 

Just  as  the  sun  the  ridgy  sea  would  leave, 

Shore-birds  we  saw,  that  flew  so  nigh,  we  heard 

Their  hoarse  loud  voice  that  seemed  a  heavenly  word. 

Then  all  were  glad,  but  I  a  fool  and  young 
Slept  not  that  night,  but  walked  the  deck  and  sung 
Snatches  of  songs,  and  verily  I  think 
I  thought  next  morn  of  some  fresh  stream  to  drink. 
What  say  I  ?  next  morn  did  I  think  to  be 
Set  in  my  godless  fair  eternity. 

Sirs,  ye  are  old,  and  ye  have  seen  perchance 
Some  little  child  for  very  gladness  dance 
Over  a  scarcely  noticed  worthless  thing, 
'Worth  more  to  him  than  ransom  of  a  king ; 
Did  not  a  pang  of  more  than  pity  take 
Your  heart  thereat,  not  for  the  youngling's  sake, 
But"  for  your  own,  for  man  that  passes  by, 
So  like  to  God,  so  like  the  beasts  that  die.  — 
Lo,  sirs,  my  pity  for  myself  is  such, 
When,  like  an  image  that  my  hand  can  touch, 
My  old  self  grows  unto  myself  grown  old. 
—  Sirs,  I  forget  my  story  is  not  told. 

Next  morn  more  wrack  we  saw,  more  birds,  but  still 
No  land  as  yet  either  for  good  or  ill, 
But  with  the  light  increased  the  favoring  breeze, 
And  smoothly  did  we  mount  the  ridgy  seas. 
Then  as  anigh  the  good  ship's  stern  I  stood 
Gazing  adown,  a  piece  of  rough-hewn  wood 
On  a  wave's  crest  I  saw,  and  loud  I  cried, 
"  Drift-wood  !  drift-wood  !  "  and  one  from  by  my  side, 
Maddened  with  joy,  made  for  the  shrouds,  and  clomb 
Up  to  the  top  to  look  on  his  new  home, 
For  sure  he  thought  the  green  earth  soon  to  see ; 
But  gazing  thence  about  him,  presently 


THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

He  shouted  out,  "A  sail  astern,  a  sail !" 

Freshening  the  hope  that  now  had  'gun  to  fail 

Of  seeing  our  fellows  with  the  earth  new  found ; 

Wherefore  we  shortened  sail,  and,  sweeping  round 

The  hazy  edges  of  the  sea  and  sky, 

Soon  from  the  deck  oould  see  that  sail  draw  nigh, 

Half  fearful  lest  she  yet  might  chance  to  be 

The  floating  house  of  some  strange  enemy, 

Till  on  her  sail  we  could  at  last  behold 

The  ruddy  lion  with  the  axe  of  gold, 

And  Marcus  Erling's  sign  set  cornerwise, 

The  green,  gold-fruited  tree  of  Paradise. 

Ah,  what  a  meeting  as  she  drew  anigh, 

Greeted  with  ringing  shouts  and  minstrelsy ; 

Alas,  the  joyful  fever  of  that  day, 

When  all  we  met  still  told  of  land  that  lay 

Not  far  ahead !  Yet  at  our  joyous  feast 

A  word  of  warning  spoke  the  Swabian  priest 

To  me  and  Nicholas,  for,  "  O  friends,"  he  said, 

"  Right  welcome  is  the  land  that  lies  ahead 

To  us  who  cannot  turn,  and  in  this  air, 

Washed  by  this  sea,  it  cannot  but  be  fair, 

And  good  for  us  poor  men  I  make  no  doubt ; 

Yet,  fellows,  must  I  warn  you  not  to  shout 

Ere  we  have  left  the  troublous  wood  behind 

Wherein  we  wander  desperate  and  blind  : 

Think  what  may  dwell  there  !    Call  to  mind  the  tale 

We  heard  last  winter  o'er  the  Yule-tide  ale, 

When  that  small,  withered,  black-eyed  Genoese 

Told  of  the  island  in  the  outer  seas 

He  and  his  fellows  reached  upon  a  tide, 

And  how,  as  lying  by  a  streamlet's  side, 

With  ripe  fruits  ready  unto  every  hand, 

They  lacked  not  for  fair  women  of  the  land, 

The  devils  came  and  slew  them,  all  but  him, 

Who,  how  he  scarce  knew,  made  a  shift  to  swim 

Off  to  his  ship  :  nor  must  ye,  fellows,  fear 

Such  things  alone,  for  mayhap  men  dwell  here 

Who  worship  dreadful  gods,  and  sacrifice 

Poor  travellers  to  them  in  such  horrid  wise 

As  I  have  heard  of ;  or  let  this  go  by, 

Yet  we  may  chance  to  come  to  slavery, 

Or  all  our  strength  and  weapons  be  too  poor 

To  conquer  such  beasts  as  the  unknown  shore 

May  breed  ;  or  set  all  these  ill  things  aside, 

It  yet  may  be  our  lot  to  wander  wide 


PROLOGUE.— THE    WANDERERS.  23 

Through  many  lands  before  at  last  we  come 
Unto  the  gates  of  our  enduring  home." 

But  what  availed  such  warning  unto  us 
Who,  by  this  change  made  nigh  delirious, 
Spake  wisdom  outward  from  the  teeth,  but  thought 
That  in  a  little  hour  we  should  be  brought 
Unto  that  bliss  our  hearts  were  set  upon, 
That  more  than  very  Heaven  we  now  had  won. 

Well,  the  next  morn  unto  our  land  we  came, 
And  even  now  my  cheeks  grow  red  with  shame, 
To  think  what  words  I  said  to  Nicholas 
(Since  on  that  night  in  the  great  ship  I  was), 
Asking  him  questions,  as  if  he  were  God, 
Or  at  the  least  in  that  fair  land  had  trod, 
And  knew  it  well,  and  still  he  answered  me 
As  some  great  doctor  in  theology 
Might  his  poor  scholar,  asking  him  of  heaven. 

But  unto  me  next  morn  the  grace  was  given 
To  see  land  first,  and  when  men  certainly 
That  blessed  sight  of  all  sights  could  descry, 
All  hearts  were  melted,  and  with  happy  tears, 
Born  of  the  death  of  all  our  doubts  and  fears, 
Yea,  with  loud  weeping,  each  did  each  embrace 
For  joy  that  we  had  gained  the  glorious  place. 
Then  must  the  minstrels  sing,  then  must  they  play 
Some  joyous  strain  to  welcome  in  the  day, 
But  for  hot  tears  could  see  nor  bow  nor  string, 
Nor  for  the  rising  sobs  make  shift  to  sing  ; 
Yea,  some  of  us  in  that  first  ecstasy 
For  joy  of  'scaping  death  went  near  to  die. 

Then  might  be  seen  how  hard  is  this  world's  lot 
When  such  a  marvel  was  our  grief  forgot, 
And  what  a  thing  the  world's  joy  is  to  bear, 
When  on  our  hearts  the  broken  bonds  of  care 
Had  left  such  scars,  no  man  of  us  could  say 
The  burning  words  upon  his  lips  that  lay  ; 
Since,  trained  to  hide  the  depths  of  misery, 
Amidst  that  joy  no  more  our  tongues  were  free. 
Ah,  then  it  was  indeed  when  first  I  knew, 
When  all  our  wildest  dreams  seemed  coming  true, 
And  we  had  reached  the  gates  of  Paradise 
And  endless  bliss,  at  what  unmeasured  price 
Man  sets  his  life,  and,  drawing  happy  breath, 
1  shuddered  at  the  once  familiar  death. 


24  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Alas,  the  happy  day !  the  foolish  day ! 
Alas,  the  sweet  time,  too  soon  passed  away  ! 

Well,  in  a  while  I  gained  the  Rose-Garland, 
And  as  toward  shore  we  steadily  did  stand 
With  all  sail  set,  the  wind,  which  had  been  light, 
Since  the  beginning  of  the  just  past  night, 
Failed  utterly,  and  the  sharp  ripple  slept, 
Then,  toiling  hard,  forward  our  keels  we  swept, 
Making  small  way,  until  night  fell  again, 
And  then,  although  of  landing  we  were  fain, 
Needs  must  we  wait,  but  when  the  sun  was  set 
Then  the  cool  night  a  light  air  did  beget, 
And  'neath  the  stars  slowly  we  moved  along, 
And  found  ourselves  within  a  current  strong 
At  daybreak,  and  the  land  beneath  our  lee. 

There  a  long  line  of  breakers  could  we  see, 
That  on  a  yellow  sandy  beach  did  fall, 
And  then  a  belt  of  grass,  and  then  a  wall 
Of  green  trees,  rising  dark  against  the  sky. 
Not  long  we  looked,  but  anchored  presently 
A  furlong  from  the  shore,  and  then,  all  armed, 
Into  the  boats  the  most  part  of  us  swarmed, 
And  pulled  with  eager  hands  unto  the  beach  ; 
But  when  the  seething  surf  our  prow  did  reach, 
From  off  the  bows  I  leapt  into  the  sea 
Waist-deep,  and,  wading,  was  the  first  to  be 
Upon  that  land  ;  then  to  the  flowers  I  ran, 
And  cried  aloud  like  to  a  drunken  man 
Words  without  meaning,  whereof  none  took  heed, 
For  all  across  the  yellow  beach  made  speed 
To  roll  among  the  fair  flowers  and  the  grass. 

But  when  our  folly  somewhat  tempered  was, 
And  we  could  talk  like  men,  we  thought  it  good 
To  try  if  we  could  pierce  the  thick  black  wood, 
And  see  what  men  might  dwell  in  that  new  land ; 
But  when  we  entered  it,  on  either  hand 
Uprose  the  trunks,  with  underwood  intwined 
Making  one  thicket,  thorny,  dense,  and  blind ; 
Where  with  our  axes,  laboring  half  the  day, 
We  scarcely  made  some  half  a  rod  of  way. 

Therefore,  we  left  that  place  and  tried  again, 
Yea,  many  times,  but  yet  was  all  in  vain ; 
So  to  the  ships  we  went,  when  we  had  been 
A  long  way  in  our  arms,  nor  yet  had  seen 
A  sign  of  man,  but  as  for  living  things, 


PROLOGUE.  — THE    WANDERERS.  25 

Gay  birds  with  many-colored  crests  and  wings, 
Conies  anigh  the  beach,  and  while  we  hacked 
Within  the  wood,  gray  serpents,  yellow-backed, 
And  monstrous  lizards  ;  yea,  and  one  man  said 
That  'midst  the  thorns  he  saw  a  dragon's  head  ; 
And  keeping  still  his  eyes  on  it  he  felt 
For  a  stout  shaft  he  had  within  his  belt ; 
But  just  as  he  had  got  it  to  the  string 
And  drawn  his  hand  aback,  the  loathly  thing 
Vanished  away,  and  how  he  could  not  tell. 

Now  spite  of  all,  little  our  courage  fell, 
For  this  day's  work,  nay  rather,  all  things  seemed 
To  show  that  we  no  foolish  dream  had  dreamed,  — 
The  pathless,  fearful  sea,  the  land  that  lay 
So  strange,  so  hard  to  find,  so  far  away, 
The  lovely  summer  air,  the  while  we  knew 
That  unto  winter  now  at  home  it  grew, 
The  flowery  shore,  the  dragon-guarded  wood, 
So  hard  to  pierce,  —  each  one  of  these  made  good 
The  foolish  hope  that  led  us  from  our  home, 
That  we  to  utter  misery  might  come. 

Now  next  morn  when  the  tide  began  to  flow, 
We  weighed,  and  somewhat  northward  did  we  go, 
Coasting  that  land,  and  every  now  and  then 
We  went  ashore  to  try  the  woods  again  ; 
But  little  change  we  found  in  them,  until 
Inland  we  saw  a  bare  and  scarped  white  hill 
Rise  o'er  their  tops,  and  going  farther  on 
Unto  a  broad  green  river's  mouth  we  won, 
And  entering  there  ran  up  it  with  the  flood, 
For  it  was  deep  although  'twixt  walls  of  wood 
Darkly  enough  its  shaded  stream  did  flow, 
And  high  trees  hid  the  hill  we  saw  just  now. 

So  as  we  peered  about  from  side  to  side 
A  path  upon  the  right  bank  we  espied 
Through  the  thick  wood,  and  mooring  hastily 
Our  ships  unto  the  trunks  of  trees  thereby, 
Laurence  and  I  with  sixty  men  took  land, 
With  bow  or  cutting  sword  or  bill  in  hand, 
And  bearing  food  to  last  till  the  third  day  ; 
But  with  the  others  there  did  Nicholas  stay 
To  guard  the  ships,  with  whom  was  Kirstin  still, 
Who  now  seemed  pining  for  old  things  and  ill, 
Spite  of  the  sea-breeze  and  the  lovely  air. 


26  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

But  as  for  us,  we  followed  up  with  care 
A  winding  path,  looking  from  left  to  right 
Lest  any  deadly  thing  should  come  in  sight ; 
And  certainly  our  path  a  dragon  crossed 
That  in  the  thicket  presently  we  lost ; 
And  sotne  men  said  a  leopard  they  espied, 
And  farther  on  we  heard  a  beast  that  cried  ; 
Serpents  we  saw,  like  those  we  erst  had  seen, 
And  many-colored  birds,  and  lizards  green, 
And  apes  that  chattered  from  amidst  the  trees. 

So  on  we  went  until  a  dying  breeze 
We  felt  upon  our  faces,  and  soon  grew 
The  forest  thinner,  till  at  last  we  knew 
The  great  scarped  hill,  which  if  we  now  could  scale 
For  sight  of  much  far  country  would  avail ; 
But  coming  there  we  climbed  it  easily, 
For  though  escarped  and  rough  toward  the  sea, 
The  beaten  path  we  followed  led  us  round 
To  where  a  soft  and  grassy  slope  we  found, 
And  there  it  forked,  one  arm  led  up  the  hill 
Another  through  the  forest  wound  on  still ; 
Which  last  we  left,  in  good  hope  soon  to  see 
Some  signs  of  man,  which  happened  presently ; 
For  two  thirds  up  the  hill  we  reached  a  space 
Levelled  by  man's  hand  in  the  mountain's  face, 
And  there  a  rude  shrine  stood,  of  unhewn  stones 
Both  walls  and  roof,  with  a  great  heap  of  bones 
Piled  up  outside  it :  there  awhile  we  stood 
In  doubt,  for  something  there  made  cold  our  blood, 
Till  brother  Laurence,  with  a  whispered  word, 
Crossed  himself  thrice,  and  drawing  forth  his  sword 
Entered  alone,  but  therewith  presently 
From  the  inside  called  out  aloud  to  me 
To  follow,  so  I,  trembling,  yet  went  in 
To  that  abode  of  unknown  monstrous  sin, 
And  others  followed  :  therein  could  we  see, 
Amidst  the  gloom  by  peering  steadily, 
An  altar  of  rough  stones,  and  over  it 
We  saw  a  god  of  yellow  metal  sit, 
A  cubit  long,  which  Laurence  with  his  tongue 
Had  touched  and  found  pure  gold  ;  withal  there  hung 
Against  the  wall  men's  bodies  brown  and  dry, 
Which  gaudy  rags  of  raiment  wretchedly 
Did  wrap  about,  and  all  their  heads  were  wreathed 
With  golden  chaplets ;  and  meanwhile  we  breathed 


PROLOGUE.  —  THE    WANDERERS.  27 

A  heavy,  faint,  and  sweet  spice-laden  air, 

As  though  that  incense  late  were  scattered  there. 

But  from  that  house  of  devils  soon  we  passed 
Trembling  and  pale,  Laurence  the  priest  the  last, 
And  got  away  in  haste,  nor  durst  we  take 
Those  golden  chaplets  for  their  wearers'  sake, 
Or  that  grim  golden  devil  whose  they  were  ; 
Yet  for  the  rest,  although  they  brought  us  fear 
They  did  but  seem  to  show  our  heaven  anigh 
Because  we  deemed  these  might  have  come  to  die 
In  seeking  it,  being  slain  for  fatal  sin. 

And  now  we  set  ourselves  in  haste  to  win 
Up  to  that  mountain's  top,  and  on  the  way 
Looked  backward  oft  upon  the  land  that  lay 
Beneath  the  hill,  and  still  on  every  hand 
The  forest  seemed  to  cover  all  the  land, 
But  that  some  four  leagues  off  we  saw  a  space 
Cleared  of  the  trees,  and  in  that  open  place 
Houses  we  seemed  to  see,  and  rising  smoke 
That  told  where  dwelt  the  unknown,  unseen  folk. 

But  when  at  last  the  utmost  top  we  won 
A  dismal  sight  our  eyes  must  look  upon  ; 
The  mountain's  summit,  levelled  by  man's  art, 
Was  hedged  by  high  stones  set  some  yard  apart 
All  round  a  smooth  paved  space,  and  midst  of  these 
We  saw  a  group  of  well-wrought  images, 
Or  so  they  seemed  at  first,  who  stood  around 
An  old  hoar  man  laid  on  the  rocky  ground 
Who  seemed  to  live  as  yet ;  now  drawing  near 
We  saw  indeed  what  things  these  figures  were ; 
Dead  corpses,  by  some  deft  embalmer  dried, 
And  on  this  mountain  after  they  had  died 
Set  up  like  players  on  a  yule-tide  feast ; 
Here  stood  a  hunter,  with  a  spotted  beast 
Most  like  a  leopard,  writhing  up  his  spear ; 
Nigh  the  old  man  stood  one  as  if  drawn  near 
To  give  him  drink,  and  on  each  side  his  head 
Two  damsels  daintily  apparelled  ; 
And  then  again,  nigh  him  who  bore  the  cup, 
Were  two  who  'twixt  them  bore  a  litter  up 
As  though  upon  a  journey  he  should  go, 
And  round  about  stood  men  with  spear  and  bow, 
And  painted  targets,  as  the  guard  to  all, 
Headed  by  one  beyond  man's  stature  tall, 
Who,  half  turned  round,  as  though  he  gave  the  word, 
Seemed  as  he  once  had  been  a  mighty  lord. 


28  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

But  the  live  man  amid  the  corpses  laid, 
Turning  from  side  to  side,  some  faint  word  said 
Now  and  again,  but  kept  his  eyes  shut  fast ; 
And  we,  when  from  the  green  slope  we  had  passed 
On  to  this  dreadful  stage,  awe-struck  and  scared, 
Awhile  upon  the  ghastly  puppets  stared, 
Then  trembling,  with  drawn  swords,  came  close  anigh 
To  where  the  hapless  ancient  man  did  lie, 
Who  at  the  noise  we  made  now  oped  his  eyes 
And  fixing  them  upon  us  did  uprise, 
And  with  a  fearful  scream  stretched  out  his  hand, 
While  upright  on  his  head  his  hair  did  stand 
For  veiy  terror,  while  we  none  the  less 
Were  rooted  to  the  ground  for  fearfulness, 
And  scarce  our  weapons  could  make  shift  to  hold. 
But  as  we  stood  and  gazed,  over  he  rolled 
Like  a  death-stricken  bull,  and  there  he  lay, 
With  his  long-hoarded  life  quite  past  away. 

Then  in  our  hearts  did  wonder  conquer  fear, 
And  to  the  dead  men  did  we  draw  anear 
And  found  them  such  like  things  as  I  have  said, 
But  he,  their  master,  was  apparelled 
Like  to  those  others  that  we  saw  e'en  now 
Hung  up  within  the  dreary  house  below. 

Right  little  courage  had  we  there  to  stay, 
So  down  the  hill  again  we  took  our  way, 
When  looking  landward  thence  we  had  but  seen, 
All  round  about,  the  forest  dull  and  green, 
Pierced  by  the  river  where  our  ships  we  left, 
And  bounded  by  far-off  blue  mountains,  cleft 
By  passes  here  and  there ;  but  we  went  by 
The  chapel  of  the  gold  god  silently, 
For  doubts  had  risen  in  our  hearts  at  last 
If  yet  the  bitterness  of  death  were  past 

But  having  come  again  into  the  wood, 
We  there  took  counsel  whether  it  were  good 
To  turn  back  to  the  ships,  or  push  on  still 
Till  we  had  reached  the  place  that  from  the  hill 
We  had  beheld,  and  since  the  last  seemed  best 
Onward  we  marched,  scarce  staying  to  take  rest 
And  eat  some  food,  for  feverish  did  we  grow 
For  haste  the  best  or  worst  of  all  to  know. 

Along  the  path  that,  as  I  said  before, 
Led  from  the  hill,  we  went,  and  labored  sore 
To  gain  the  open  ere  the  night  should  fall, 
But  yet  in  vain,  for,  like  a  dreary  pall 


PROLOGUE.  — THE    WANDERERS.  29 

Cast  o'er  the  world,  the  darkness  hemmed  us  in, 

And  though  we  struggled  desperately  to  win 

From  out  the  forest  through  the  very  night, 

Yet  did  that  labor  so  abate  our  might, 

\Ve  thought  it  good  to  rest  among  the  trees, 

Nor  come  on  those  who  might  be  enemies 

In  the  thick  darkness,  neither  did  we  dare 

To  light  a  fire  lest  folk  should  slay  us  there 

Mazed  and  defenceless  ;  so  the  one  half  slept 

As  they  might  do,  the  while  the  others  kept 

Good  guard  in  turn ;  and  as  we  watched  we  heard 

Sounds  that  might  well  have  made  bold  men  afeard, 

And  cowards  die  of  fear,  but  we,  alone, 

Apart  from  all,  such  desperate  men  were  grown, 

If  we  should  fail  to  win  our  Paradise, 

That  common  life  we  now  might  well  despise. 

So  by  the  daybreak  on  our  way  we  were, 
When  we  had  seen  to  all  our  fighting  gear ; 
And  soon  we  came  unto  that  open  space, 
And  here  and  there  about  a  grassy  place 
Saw  houses  scattered,  neither  great  nor  fair, 
For  they  were  framed  of  trees  as  they  grew  there, 
And  walled  with  wattle-work  from  tree  to  tree ; 
And  thereabout  beasts  unknown  did  we  see, 
Four-footed,  tame ;  and  soon  a  man  came  out 
From  the  first  house,  and  with  a  startled  shout 
Took  to  his  heels,  and  soon  from  far  and  near, 
The  folk  swarmed  out,  and  still  as  in  great  fear 
Gave  us  no  second  look,  but  ran  their  best, 
And  they  being  clad  but  lightly  for  the  rest, 
To  follow  them  seemed  little  mastery. 
So  to  their  houses  gat  we  speedily 
To  see  if  we  might  take  some  loiterer ; 
And  some  few  feeble  folk  we  did  find  there, 
Though  most  had  fled,  and  unto  these  with  pain 
We  made  some  little  of  our  meaning  plain, 
And  sent  an  old  man  forth  into  the  wood 
To  show  his  fellows  that  our  will  was  good. 
Who  going  from  us  came  back  presently, 
His  message  done,  and  with  him  two  or  three, 
The  boldest  of  his  folk,  and  they  in  turn 
A  little  of  us  by  our  signs  did  learn, 
Then  went  their  way  :  and  so  at  last  all  fear 
Was  laid  aside,  and  thronging  they  drew  near 
To  look  upon, us  ;  and  at  last  came  one 
Who  had  upon  his  breast  a  golden  sun,' 


30  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And  in  strange  glittering  gay  attire  was  clad  ; 

He  let  us  know  our  coming  made  him  glad, 

And  bade  us  come  with  him  ;  so  thereon  we, 

Thinking  him  some  one  in  authority, 

Rose  up  and  followed  him,  who  with  glad  face 

Led  us  through  closer  streets  of  that  strange  place, 

And  brought  us  lastly  to  a  shapely  hall 

Round  and  high-roofed,  held  up  with  tree-trunks  tall ; 

And  midst  his  lords  the  barbarous  king  sat  there, 

Gold-crowned,  in  strange  apparel  rich  and  fair, 

Whereat  we  shuddered,  for  we  saw  that  he 

Was  clad  like  him  that  erewhile  we  did  see 

Upon  the  hill,  and  like  those  other  ones 

Hung  in  the  dismal  shrine  of  unhewn  stones. 

Yet  naught  of  evil  did  he  seem  to  think, 
But  bade  us  sit  by  him  and  eat  and  drink, 
So  eating  did  we  speak  by  signs  meanwhile 
Each  unto  each,  and  they  would  laugh  and  smile 
As  folk  well  pleased  ;  and  with  them  all  that  day 
Well  feasted,  learning  some  things  did  we  stay. 
And  sure  of  all  the  folk  I  ever  saw 
These  were  the  gentlest :  if  they  had  a  law 
We  knew  not  then,  but  still  they  seemed  to  be 
Like  the  gold  people. of  antiquity. 

Now  when  we  tried  to  ask  for  that  good  land, 
Eastward  and  seaward  did  they  point  the  hand  ; 
Yet  if  they  knew  what  thing  we  meant  thereby 
We  knew  not ;  but  when  we  for  our  reply 
Said  that  we  came  thence,  they  made  signs  to  say 
They  knew  it  well,  and  kneeling  down  they  lay 
Before  our  feet,  as  people  worshipping. 

But  we,  though  somewhat  troubled  at  this  thing, 
Failed  not  to  hope,  because  it  seemed  to  us 
That  this  so  simple  folk  and  virtuous, 
So  happy  midst  their  dreary  forest  bowers, 
Showed  at  the  least  a  better  land  than  ours, 
And  some  yet  better  thing  far  onward  lay. 

Amidst  all  this  we  made  a  shift  to  pray 
That  some  of  them  would  go  with  us,  to  be 
Our  fellows  on  the  perilous  green  sea, 
And  much  did  they  rejoice  when  this  they  knew, 
And  straightway  'midst  their  young  men  lots  they  drew, 
And  the  next  morn  of  these  they  gave  us  ten, 
And  wept  at  our  departing. 

Now  these  men, 
Though  brown  indeed  through  dint  of  that  hot  sun, 


PROLOGUE.  — THE    WANDERERS.  31 

Were  comely  and  well-knit,  as  any  one 

I  saw  in  Greece,  and  fit  for  deeds  of  war, 

Though,  as  I  said,  of  all  men  gentlest  far  ; 

Their  arms  were  axe  and  spear,  and  shield  and  bow, 

But  naught  of  iron  did  they  seem  to  know, 

For  all  their  cutting  tools  were  edged  with  flint, 

Or  with  soft  copper,  that  soon  turned  and  bent ; 

With  cloths  of  cotton  were  their  bodies  clad, 

But  other  raiment  for  delight  they  had 

Most  fairly  woven  of  some  unknown  thing  ; 

And  all  of  them  from  little  child  to  king 

Had  many  ornaments  of  beaten  gold  : 

Certes,  we  might  have  gathered  wealth  untold 

Amongst  them,  had  that  then  been  in  our  thought, 

But  none  the  glittering  evil  valued  aught. 

Now  of  these  foresters  we  learned,  that  they, 
Hemmed  by  the  woods,  went  seldom  a  long  way 
From  where  we  saw  them,  and  no  boat  they  had, 
Or  much  of  other  people  good  or  bad 
They  knew,  and  ever  had  they  little  war  : 
But  now  and  then  a  folk  would  come  from  far 
In  ships  unlike  to  ours,  and  for  their  gold 
Would  give  them  goods  ;  and  some  men  over  bold 
Who  dwelt  beyond  the  great  hill  we  had  seen, 
Had  waged  them  war,  but  these  all  slain  had  been 
Among  the  tangled  woods  by  men  who  knew 
What  tracks  of  beasts  the  thicket  might  pierce  through. 

Such  things  they  told  us  whom  we  brought  away, 
But  after  this,  for  ce'rtes  on  that  day 
Not  much  we  gathered  of  their  way  of  life. 

So  to  the  ships  we  came  at  last,  and  rife 
With  many  things  new  learned,  we  told  them  all, 
And  though  our  courage  might  begin  to  fall 
A  little  now,  yet  each  to  other  we 
Made  countenance  of  great  felicity, 
And  spoke  as  if  the  prize  were  wellnigh  won. 

Behold  then,  sirs,  how  fortune  led  us  on, 
Little  by  little  till  we  reached  the  worst, 
And  still  our  lives  grew  more  and  more  accurst 

THE  ELDER  OF  THE  CITY. 

Nay,  friends,  believe  your  worser  life  now  past, 
And  that  a  little  bliss  is  reached  at  last ; 
Take  heart,  therefore,  for  like  a  tale  so  told 


32  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Is  each  man's  life  :  and  ye,  who  have  been  bold 
To  see  and  suffer  such  unheard-of  things, 
Henceforth  shall  be  more  worshipped  than  the  kings 
We  hear  you  name  ;  then  since  ye  reach  this  day 
How  are  ye  worse  for  what  has  passed  away? 

THE  WANDERER. 

Kind  folk,  what  words  of  ours  can  give  you  praise 
That  fits  your  kindness  ?  yet  for  those  past  days, 
If  we  bemoan  our  lot,  think  this  at  least : 
We  are  as  men,  who  cast  aside  a  feast 
Amidst  their  lowly  fellows,  that  they  may 
Eat  with  the  king,  and  who  at  end  of  day, 
Bearing  sore  stripes,  with  great  humility 
Must  pray  the  bedesmen  of  those  men  to  be 
They  scorned  that  day  while  yet  the  sun  was  high. 

Not  long  within  the  river  did  we  lie, 
But  put  to  sea  intending  as  before 
To  coast  with  watchful  eyes  the  unknown  shore, 
And  strive  to  pierce  the  woods  :  three  days  we  sailed, 
And  little  all  our  watchfulness  availed, 
Though  all  that  time  the  wind  was  fair  enow  ; 
But  on  the  fourth  day  it  began  to  blow 
From  off  the  land,  and  still  increased  on  us 
Until  the  storm  grown  wild  and  furious, 
Although  at  anchor  still  we  strove  to  ride, 
Had  blown  us  out  into  the  ocean  wide, 
Far  out  of  sight  of  land  ;  and  when  at  last, 
After  three  days,  its  fury  was  o'erpast, 
Of  all  our  counsels  this  one  was  the  best 
To  beat  back  blindly  to  the  longed-for  west ; 
Baffling  the  wind  was,  toilsome  was  the  way, 
Nor  did  we  make  land  till  the  thirtieth  day, 
When  both  flesh-meat  and  water  were  nigh  spent, 
But  anchoring  at  last,  ashore  _we  went, 
And  found  the  land  far  better  than  the  first. 
For  this  with  no  thick  forest  was  accurst, 
Though  here  and  there  were  scattered  clumps  of  wood. 
The  air  was  cooler,  too,  but  soft  and  good, 
Fair  streams  we  saw,  and  herds  of  goats  and  deer, 
But  nothing  noisome  for  a  man  to  fear. 

So  since  at  anchor  safe  our  good  ships  lay 
Within  the  long  horns  of  a  sandy  bay, 
We  thought  it  good  ashore  to  take  our  ease, 


PROLOGUE.  — THE    WANDERERS.  33 

And  pitched  our  tents  anigh  some  maple-trees 
Not  far  from  shore,  and  there  with  little  pain 
Enough  of  venison  quickly  did  we  gain 
To  feast  us  all,  and  high  feast  did  we  hold 
Lighting  great  fires,  for  now  the  nights  were  cold, 
And  we  were  fain  a  noble  roast  to  eat ; 
Nor  did  we  lack  for  drink  to  better  meat, 
For  from  the  dark  hold  of  the  Rose-Garland 
A  well-hooped  cask  our  shipmen  brought  aland, 
That  knew  some  white-walled  city  of  the  Rhine. 

There  crowned  with  flowers,  and  flushed  with  noble  wine, 
Hearkening  the  distant  murmur  of  the  main, 
And  safe  upon  our  promised  land  again, 
What  wonder  if  our  vain  hopes  rose  once  more 
And  Heaven  seemed  dull  beside  that  twice-won  shore. 

By  midnight  in  our  tents  were  we  asleep, 
And  little  watch  that  night  did  any  keep, 
For  as  our  pleasance  that  fair  land  we  deemed. 
But  in  my  sleep  of  lovely  things  I  dreamed, 
For  I  was  back  at  Micklegarth  once  more, 
But  not  a  court-man's  son  there  as  of  yore, 
But  the  Greek  king,  or  so  I  seemed  to  be, 
Set  on  the  throne  whose  awe  and  majesty 
Gold  lions  guard  ;  before  whose  moveless  feet 
A  damsel  knelt,  praying  in  words  so  sweet 
For  what  I  know  not  now,  that  both  mine  eyes 
Grew  full  of  tears,  and  I  must  bid  her  rise 
And  sit  beside  me ;  step  by  step  she  came 
Up  the  gold  stair,  setting  my  heart  aflame 
With  all  her  beauty,  till  she  reached  the  throne 
And  there  sat  down,  but  as,  with  her  alone 
In  that  vast  hall,  my  hand  her  hand  did  seek, 
And  on  my  face  I  felt  her  balmy  cheek, 
Throughout  my  heart  there  shot  a  dreadful  pang, 
And  down  below  us,  with  a  sudden  clang, 
The  golden  lions  rose,  and  roared  aloud, 
And  in  at  every  door  did  armed  men  crowd, 
Shouting  out  death  and  curses,  and  I  fell 
Dreaming  indeed  that  this  at  last  was  helL 

But  therewithal  I  woke,  and  through  the  night 
Heard  shrieks  and  shouts  and  clamor  as  of  fight, 
And  snatching  up  my  axe,  unarmed  beside 
Nor  scarce  awaked,  my  rallying  ciy  I  cried, 
And  with  good  haste  unto  the  hubbub  went ; 
But  even  in  the  entry  of  the  tent 
3 


34  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Some  dark  mass  hid  the  star-besprinkled  sky, 

And  whistling  past  my  head  a  spear  did  fly, 

And  striking  out  I  saw  a  naked  man 

Fall  'neath  my  blow,  nor  heeded  him,  but  ran 

Unto  the  captain's  tent,  for  there  indeed 

I  saw  my  fellows  stand  at  desperate  need, 

Beset  with  foes,  nor  yet  armed  more  than  I, 

Though  on  the  way  I  rallied  hastily 

Some  better  armed,  with  whom  I  straightway  fell 

Upon  the  foe,  who  with  a  %  hideous  yell 

Turned  round  upon  us ;  but  we  desperate 

And  fresh,  and  dangerous  for  our  axes'  weight, 

Fought  so  that  they  must  needs  give  back  a  pace 

And  yield  our  fellows  some  small  breathing  space ; 

Then  gathering  all  together,  side  by  side 

We  laid  our  weapons,  and  our  cries  we  cried 

And  rushed  upon  them,  who  abode  no  more 

Our  levelled  points,  but  scattering  from  the  shore 

Ran  here  and  there,  but  when  some  two  or  three 

We  in  the  chase  had  slain  right  easily, 

We  held  our  hands,  nor  followed  more  their  flight, 

Fearing  the  many  chances  of  the  night. 

Then  did  we  light  our  watch -fires  up  again 
And  armed  us  all,  and  found  three  good  men  slain  ; 
Ten  wounded,  among  whom  was  Nicholas, 
Though  little  heedful  of  these  things  he  was, 
For  in  his  tent  he  sat  upon  the  grouno, 
Holding  fair  Kirstin's  hand,  whom  he  had  found 
Dead,  with  a  feathered  javelin  in  her  breast. 

But  taking  counsel  now,  we  thought  it  best 
To  gather  up  our  goods  and  get  away 
Unto  the  ships,  and  there  to  wait  the  day  ; 
Nor  did  we  loiter,  fearful  lest  the  foe, 
Who  somewhat  now  our  feebleness  must  know, 
Should  come  on  us  with  force  made  manifold, 
And  all  our  story  quickly  should  be  told. 
So  to  our  boats  in  haste  the  others  gat, 
But  in  his  tent,  not  speaking,  Nicholas  sat, 
Nor  moved  when  o'er  his  head  we  struck  the  tent 
But  when  all  things  were  ready,  then  I  went 
And  raised  the  body  up,  and  silently 
Walked  with  it  down  the  beach  unto  the  sea  ; 
Then  he  arose  and  followed  me,  and  when. 
He  reached  at  last  the  now  embarking  men, 
And  in  a  boat  my  burden  I  had  laid, 
He  sat  beside  ;  but  no  word  had  he  said 


PROLOGUE.  — THE    WANDERERS.  35 

Since  first  he  knew  her  slain.     Such  ending  had 
The  night  at  whose  beginning  all  were  glad. 

One  wounded  man  of  theirs  we  brought  with  us 
Hoping  for  news,  but  he  grew  furious 
When  he  awoke  aboard  from  out  his  swoon, 
And  tore  his  wounds,  and  smote  himself,  and  soon 
Died  outright,  though  his  hurts  were  slight  enow  ; 
So  naught  from  him  of  that  land  could  we  know. 
But  now  as  we  that  luckless  country  scanned, 
Just  at  the  daybreak  did  we  see  a  band 
Of  these  barbarians  come  with  shout  and  yell 
Across  the  place  where  all  these  things  befell, 
Down  to  the  very  edges  of  the  sea  ; 
But  though  armed  now,  by  day,  we  easily 
Had  made  a  shift  no  few  of  them  to  slay, 
It  seemed  to  us  the  better  course  to  weigh 
And  try  another  entry  to  that  land  ; 
So  southward  with  a  light  wind  did  we  stand, 
Not  losing  sight  of  shore,  and  now  and  then 
I  led  ashore  the  more  part  of  our  men 
Well  armed,  by  daylight,  and  the  barbarous  folk 
Once  and  again  from  bushments  on  us  broke, 
Whom  without  loss  of  men  we  brushed  away. 
But  in  our  turn  it  happed  to  us  one  day 
Upon  a  knot  of  them  tin  wares  to  come, 
These  we  bore  back  with  us,  the  most  of  whom 
Would  neither  eat  nor  drink,  but  sullenly 
Sat  in  a  corner  of  the  ship  to  die  ; 
But  'mongst  them  was  a  woman,  who  at  last, 
Won  by  the  glitter  of  some  toy  we  cast 
About  her  neck,  by  soft  words  and  by  wine, 
Began  to  answer  us  by  sign  to  sign  ; 
Of  whom  we  learned  not  much  indeed,  but  when 
We  set  on  shore  those  tameless  savage  men, 
And  would  have  left  her  too,  she  seemed  to  pray, 
For  terror  of  her  folk,  with  us  to  stay  : 
Therefore  we  took  her  back  with  us,  and  she, 
Though  learning  not  our  tongue  too  easily, 
Unto  the  forest-folk  began  to  speak. 

Now  midst  all  this  passed  many  a  weary  week, 
And  we  no  nigher  all  the  time  had  come 
Unto  the  portal  of  our  blissful  home, 
And  needs  our  bright  hope  somewhat  must  decay ; 
Yet  none  the  less  as  dull  day  passed  by  day, 
Still  onward  by  our  folly  were  we  led, 


36  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And  still  with  lies  our  wavering  hearts  we  fed. 
Happy  we  were  in  this,  that  still  the  wind 
Blew  as  we  wished,  and  still  the  air  was  kind ; 
Nor  failed  we  of  fresh  water  as  we  went 
Along  the  coast,  and  oft  our  bows  we  bent 
On  beast  and  fowl,  and  had  no  lack  of  food. 

Upon  a  day  it  chanced,  that  as  we  stood 
Somewhat  off  shore  to  fetch  about  a  ness, 
Although  the  wind  was  blowing  less  and  less, 
We  were  entrapped  into  a  fearful  sea, 
And  carried  by  a  current  furiously 
Away  from  shore,  and  there  were  we  so  tost 
That  for  a  while  we  deemed  ourselves  but  lost 
Amid  those  tumbling  waves  ;  but  now  at  last, 
When  out  of  sight  of  land  we  long  had  passed, 
The  sea  fell,  and  again  toward  land  we  stood, 
Which,  reached  upon  the  tenth  day,  seemed  right  good, 
But  yet  untilled,  and  mountains  rose  up  high 
Far  inland,  mingling  with  the  cloudy  sky. 

Once  more  we  took  the  land,  and  since  we  found 
That,  more  than  ever,  beasts  did  there  abound, 
We  pitched  our  camp  beside  a  little  stream, 
But  scarcely  there  of  Paradise  did  dream 
As  heretofore.     Our  camp  we  fortified 
With  wall  and  dike,  and  then  the  land  we  tried, 
And  found  the  people  most  untaught  and  wild, 
Nigh  void  of  arts,  but  harmless,  good,  and  mild, 
Nor  fearing  us  :  with  some  of  these  we  went 
Back  to  our  camp  and  people,  with  intent 
To  question  them,  by  her  we  last  had  got 
But  when  she  heard  their  tongue  she  knew  it  not, 
Nor  did  those  others  :  but  they  seemed  to  say, 
That  o'er  the  mountains  other  lands  there  lay 
Where  folk  dwelt,  clothed  and  armed  like  unto  us, 
But  made  withal  as  they  were  timorous 
And  feared  them  much.    Then  we  made  signs  that  we, 
So  little  feared  by  all  that  tumbling  sea, 
\Vould  go  to  seek  them  ;  but  they  still  would  stay 
Our  journey  ;  nathless  what  they  meant  to  say 
We  scarce  knew  yet :  howbeit,  since  these  men 
Were  friendly,  and  the  weather,  which  till  then 
Had  been  most  fair,  now  grew  to  storm  and  rain, 
And  the  wind  blew  on  land,  and  not  in  vain. 
To  us  poor  fools,  that  tale,  half  understood 
Those  folk  had  told  :  midst  all  we  thought  it  good 
To  haul  our  ships  ashore,  and  build  us  there 


PROLOGUE.  — THE    WANDERERS.  37 

A  place  where  we  might  dwell,  till  we  could  fare 
Along  the  coast,  or  inland  it  might  be, 
That  fertile  realm,  those  goodly  men  to  see. 

Right  foul  the  weather  was  a  dreary  space 
While  we  abode  with  people  of  that  place, 
And  built  them  huts,  as  well  we  could,  for  we 
Who  dwell  in  Norway  have  great  mastery 
In  woodwright's  craft ;  but  they  in  turn  would  bring 
Wild  fruits  to  us,  and  many  a  woodland  thing, 
And  catch  us  fish,  and  show  us  how  to  take 
The  smaller  beasts,  and  meanwhile  for  our  sake 
They  learned  our  tongue,  and  we  too  somewhat  learned 
Of  words  of  theirs  ;  but  clay  by  day  we  yearned 
To  cross  those  mountains,  and  I  woke  no  morn, 
To  find  myself  lost,  wretched,  and  forlorn, 
But  those  far-off  white  summits  gave  me  heart ; 
Now  too  those  folk  their  story  could  impart 
Concerning  them,  and  that  in  short  was  this,  — 
Beyond  them  lay  a  fair  abode  of  bliss 
Where  dwelt  men  like  the  Gods,  and  clad  as  we, 
Who  doubtless  lived  on  through  eternity 
Unless  the  very  world  should  come  to  naught ; 
But  never  had  they  had  the  impious  thought 
To  scale  those  mountains,  since  most  surely,  none 
Could  follow  over  them  the  fearful  sun 
And  live,  of  men  they  knew  ;  but  as  for  us, 
They  said,  who  were  so  wise  and  glorious, 
It  might  not  be  so. 

Thus  they  spoke  one  eve 

When  the  black  rain-clouds  for  a  while  did  leave 
Upon  the  fresh  and  teeming  earth  to  frown, 
And  we  they  spoke  to  had  just  set  us  down 
Midmost  their  village  ;  from  the  resting  earth 
Sweet  odors,  rose,  and  in  their  noisy  mirth 
The  women  played,  as  rising  from  the  brook 
Off  their  long  locks  the  glittering  drops  they  shook  ; 
Betwixt  the  huts  the  children  raced  along  ; 
Some  man  was  singing  a  wild  barbarous  song 
Anigh  us,  and. these  folk,  possessing  naught 
And  lacking  naught,  lived  happy,  free  from  thought, 
Or  so  it  seemed  —  but  we,  what  thing  could  pay 
For  all  that  we  had  left  so  far  away  ? 

Such  thoughts  as  these  I  uttered  murmuringly, 
But  lifting  up  mine  eyes,  against  the  sky 
Beheld  the  snowy  peaks  brought  near  to  us 
By  a  strange  sunset,  red  and  glorious, 


38  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

That  seemed  as  through  the  much-praised  land  it  lit, 
And  would  do,  long  hours  after  we  must  sit 
Beneath  the  twinkling  stars  with  none  to  heed  : 
And  though  I  knew  it  was  not  so  indeed, 
Yet  did  it  seem  to  answer  me,  as  though 
It  called  us  once  more  on  our  quest  to  go. 

Then  springing  up  I  raised  my  voice  and  said  :  — ' 
"  What  is  it,  fellows  ?  fear  ye  to  be  dead 
Upon  those  peaks,  when,  if  ye  loiter  here 
Half  dead,  with  very  death  still  drawing  near, 
Your  lives  are  wasted  all  the  more  for  this, 
That  ye  in  this  world  thought  to  garner  bliss  ?  - 
Unless  indeed  ye  chance  to  think  it  well 
With  this  unclad  and  barbarous  folk  to  dwell, 
Deedless  and  hopeless  ;  ye,  to  whom  the  land, 
That  o'er  the  world  has  sent  so  many  a  band 
Of  conquering  men,  was  not  yet  good  enough. 

"Did  ye  then  deem  the  way  would  not  be  rough 
Unto  the  lovely  land  ye  so  desire  ? 
Did  ye  not  rather  swear  through  blood  and  fire, 
And  all  ill  things  to  follow  up  this  quest 
Till  life  or  death  your  longing  laid  to  rest  ? 

"  Let  us  not  linger  here  then,  until  fate 
Make  longing  unavailing,  hope  too  late, 
And  turn  to  lamentations  all  our  prayers, 
But  with  to-morrow  cast  aside  your  cares, 
And  stout  of  heart  make  ready  for  the  strife 
'Twixt  this  short  time  of  dreaming  and  real  life. 

"  Lo  now,  if  but  the  half  will  come  with  me, 
The  summit  of  those  mountains  will  I  see, 
Or  else  die  first,  — yea,  if  but  twenty  men 
Will  follow  me  ;  nor  will  I  stay  if  ten 
Will  share  my  trouble  or  felicity  — 
What  do  I  say  ?  alone,  O  friends,  will  I 
Seek  for  my  life,  for  no  man  can  die  twice, 
And  death  or  life  may  give  me  Paradise  ! " 

Then  Nicholas  said  :  "  Rolf,  I  will  go  with  thee, 
For  desperate  do  I  think  the  quest  to  be, 
And  I  shall  die,  and  that  to  me  is  well, 
Or  else  I  may  forget,  I  cannot  tell,  — 
Still  I  will  go." 

Then  Laurence  said  :  "I  too 
Will  go,  remembering  what  I  said  to  you, 
When  any  land,  the  first  to  which  we  came, 
Seemed  that  we  sought,  and  set  your  hearts  aflame, 


PROLOGUE.— THE    WANDERERS.  39 

And  all  seemed  won  to  you  :  but  still  I  think, 
Perchance  years  hence,  the  fount  of  life  to  drink, 
Unless  by  some  ill  chance  I  first  am  slain, 
But  boundless  risk  must  pay  for  boundless  gain." 

So  most  men  said,  but  yet  a  few  there  were 
Who  said  :   "  Nay,  soothly  let  us  live  on  here, 
We  have  been  fools  and  we  must  pay  therefore 
With  this  dull  life,  and  labor  very  sore 
Until  we  die  ;  yet  are  we  grown  too  wise 
Upon  this  earth  to  seek  for  Paradise  ; 
Leave  us,  but  ye  may  yet  come  back  again 
When  ye  have  found  your  trouble  naught  and  vain." 

Well,  in  three  days  we  left  those  men  behind, 
To  dwell  among  the  simple  folk  and  kind 
Who  were  our  guides  at  first,  until  that  we 
Reached  the  green  hills  clustered  confusedly 
About  the  mountains,  then  they  turned,  right  glad 
That  till  that  time  no  horrors  they  had  had  ; 
But  we  still  hopeful,  making  naught  of  time, 
The  rugged  rocks  now  set  ourselves  to  climb, 
And  lonely  there  for  days  and  days  and  days 
We  stumbled  through  the  blind  and  bitter  ways, 
Now  rising  to  the  never-melting  snow, 
Now  beaten  thence,  and  fain  to  try  below 
Another  kingdom  of  that  world  of  stone. 

At  last  when  all  our  means  of  life  were  gone, 
And  some  of  us  had  fallen  in  the  fight 
With  cold  and  weariness,  we  came  in  sight 
Of  what  we  hungered  for,  — what  then,  —  what  then? 
A  savage  land,  a  land  unfilled  again, 
No  lack  of  food  while  lasted  shaft  or  bow, 
But  folk  the  worst  of  all  we  came  to  know  ; 
Scarce  like  to  men,  yea,  worse  than  most  of  beasts, 
For  of  men  slain  they  made  their  impious  feasts ; 
These,  as  I  deem  for  our  fresh  blood  athirst 
From  out  the  thick  wood  often  on  us  burst. 
Not  heeding  death,  and  in  confused  fight 
We  spent  full  many  a  wretched  day  and  night, 
That  yet  were  happiest  of  the  times  we  knew, 
For  with  our  grief  such  fearful  foes  we  grew, 
That  Odin's  gods  had  hardly  scared  men  more 
As  fearless  through  "the  naked  press  we  bore. 

At  first  indeed  some  prisoners  did  we  take, 
Asking  them  questions  for  our  fair  land's  sake, 
Hoping  'gainst  hope  ;  but  when  in  vain  had  been 


40  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Our  questioning,  and  we  one  day  had  seen 
Their  way  of  banqueting,  then  axe  and  spear 
Ended  the  wretched  life  and  sullen  fear 
Of  any  wild  man  wounded  in  the  fight 

So  with  the  failing  of  our  hoped  delight 
We  grew  to  be  like  devils,  —  then  I  knew, 
At  my  own  cost,  what  each  man  cometh  to 
When  every  pleasure  from  his  life  is  gone, 
And  hunger  and  desire  of  life  alone, 
That  still  beget  dull  rage  and  bestial  fears, 
Like  gnawing  serpents  through  the  world  he  bears. 

What  time  we  spent  there  ?  nay,  I  do  not  know : 
For  happy  folk  no  time  can  pass  too  slow 
Because  they  die  ;  because  at  last  they  die 
And  are  at  rest,  no  time  too  fast  can  fly 
For  wretches  ;  but  eternity  of  woe 
Had  hemmed  us  in,  and  neither  fast  or  slow 
Passed  the  dull  time  as  we  held  reckoning. 

Yet  midst  so  many  a  wretched,  hopeless  tiling 
One  hope  there  was,  if  it  was  still  a  hope, 
At  last,  at  last,  to  turn,  and  scale  the  cope 
Of  those  dread  mountains  we  had  clambered  o'er. 
And  we  did  turn,  and  with  what  labor  sore, 
What  thirst,  what  hunger,  and  what  wretchedness 
We  struggled  daily,  how  can  words  express  ? 
Yet  amidst  all,  the  kind  God  led  us  on 
Until  at  last  a  high  raised  pass  we  won 
And  like  gray  clouds  afar  beheld  the  sea, 
And  weakened  with  our  toil  and  misery 
Wept  at  that  sight,  that  like  a  friend  did  seem 
Forgotten  long,  beheld  but  in  a  dream 
When  we  know  not  if  he  be  still  alive. 

But  thence  descending,  we  with  rocks  did  strive, 
Till  dwindled,  weary,  did  we  reach  the  plain 
And  came  unto  our  untaught  friends  again, 
And  those  we  left,  who  yet  alive  and  well, 
Wedded  to  brown  wives,  fain  would  have  us  tell 
The  story  of  our  woes,  which  when  they  heard, 
The  country  people  wondered  at  our  word, 
But  not  our  fellows  ;  and  so  all  being  said 
A  little  there  we  gathered  lustihead 
Still  talking  over  what  was  best  to  do. 
And  we  the  leaders  yet  were  fain  to  go 
From  sea  to  sea  and  take  what  God  might  send, 
Who  at  the  worst  our  hopes  and  griefs  would  end 
With  that  same  death  we  once  had  hoped  to  stay, 


PROLOGUE.— THE    WANDERERS.  41 

Or  even  yet  might  send  us  such  a  day, 

That  our  past  troubles  should  but  make  us  glad 

As  men  rejoice  in  pensive  songs  and  sad. 

This  was  our  counsel ;  those  that  we  had  left 
Said,  that  they  once  before  had  been  bereft 
Of  friends  and  country  by  a  sick  man's  dream, 
That  this  their  life  not  evil  did  they  deem 
Nor  would  they  rashly  cast  it  down  the  wind  ; 
But  whoso  went,  that  they  would  stay  behind. 

Others  there  were  who  said,  whate'er  might  come 
They  would  at  least  seek  for  the  happy  home 
They  had  forgotten  once,  and  there  at  last 
In  penitence  for  sins  and  follies  past 
Wait  for  the  death  that  they  in  vain  had  fled. 

Well,  when  all  things  by  all  sides  had  been  said 
We  drew  the  ships  again  unto  the  sea, 
Which  those  who  went  not  with  us  carefully 
Had  tended  for  those  years  we  were  away 
(Which  still  they  said  was  ten  months  and  a  day) ; 
And  these  we  rigged,  and  in  a  little  while 
The  Fighting  Man  looked  o'er  the  false  sea's  smile 
Unto  the  land  of  Norway,  and  our  band, 
Across  the  bulwarks  of  the  Rose-Garland, 
Amidst  of  tears  and  doubt  and  miseiy 
Sent  after  them  a  feeble  farewell  cry, 
And  they  returned  a  tremulous  faint  cheer  ; 
While  from  the  sandy  shell-strewn  beach  anear 
The  soft  west  wind  across  the  waves  bore  out 
A  strange  confused  noise  of  wail  and  shout, 
For  there  the  dark  line  of  the  outland  folk 
A  few  familiar  gray-eyed  faces  broke, 
That  minded  us  of  Norway  left  astern, 
Ere  we  began  our  heavy  task  to  learn. 

THE  ELDER  OF  THE  CITY. 

Sirs,  by  my  deeming  had  ye  still  gone  on 
When  ye  had  crossed  the  mountains,  ye  had  won 
Unto  another  sea  at  last,  and  there 
Had  found  clad  folk,  and  cities  great  and  fair 
Though  not  the  deathless  country  of  your  thought. 

THE  WANDERER. 

Yea,  sirs,  and  short  of  that  we  had  deemed  naught, 
Ere  yet  our  hope  of  life  had  fully  died, 
And  for  those  cities  scarce  should  we  have  tried, 


42  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

E'en  had  we  known  of  them,  and  certainly 
Naught  but  those  bestial  people  did  we  see  : 
But  let  me  hasten  now  unto  the  end. 

Fair  wind  and  lovely  weather  God  did  send 
To  us  deserted  men,  who  but  two-score 
Now  mustered,  so  we  stood  off  from  the  shore 
Still  stretching  south  till  we  lost  land  again, 
Because  we  deemed  our  labor  would  be  vain 
Upon  the  land  too  near  where  we  had  been, 
Where  none  of  us  as  yet  a  sign  had  seen 
Of  that  which  we  desired.     And  now  we  few, 
Thus  left  alone,  each  unto  other  grew 
The  dearer  friends,  and  less  accursed  we  seemed 
As  still  the  less  of  'scaping  death  we  dreamed, 
And  knew  the  lot  of  all  men  should  be  ours, 
A  checkered  day  of  sunshine  and  of  showers 
Fading  to  twilight  and  dark  night  at  last. 

Those  forest  folk  with  ours  their  lot  had  cast, 
And  ever  unto  us  were  leal  and  true, 
And  now  when  all  our  tongue  at  last  they  knew 
They  told  us  tales,  too  long  to  tell  as  now ; 
Yet  this  one  thing  I  fain  to  you  would  show 
About  the  dying  man  our  sight  did  kill 
Amidst  the  corpses  on  that  dreaiy  hill : 
Namely,  that  when  their  king  drew  nigh  to  death, 
But  still  had  left  in  him  some  little  breath, 
They  bore  him  to  that  hill,  when  they  had  slain, 
By  a  wild  root  that  killed  with  little  pain, 
His  servants  and  his  wives  like  as  we  saw, 
Thinking  that  thence  the  gods  his  soul  would  draw 
To  heaven  ;  but  the  king  being  dead  at  last, 
The  servants  dead  being  taken  down,  they  cast 
Into  the  river,  but  the  king  they  hung 
Embalmed  within  that  chapel,  where  they  sung 
Some  office  over  him  in  solemn  wise, 
Amidst  the  smoke  of  plenteous  sacrifice. 

Well,  though  wild  hope  no  longer  in  us  burned, 
Unto  the  land  within  awhile  we  turned, 
And  found  it  much  the. same,  and  still  untilled, 
And  still  its  people  of  all  arts  unskilled  ; 
And  some  were  dangerous  and  some  were  kind ; 
But  midst  them  no  more  tidings  did  we  find 
Of  what  we  once  had  deemed  well-won,  but  now 
Was  like  the  dream  of  some  past  kingly  show. 


PROLOGUE.  — THE    WANDERERS.  43 

What  shall  I  say  of  all  these  savages, 
Of  these  wide  plains  beset  with  unsown  trees, 
Through  which  untamed  man-fearing  beasts  did  range  ? 
To  us  at  least  there  seemed  but  little  change, 
For  we  were  growing  weary  of  the  world. 

Whiles  did  we  dwell  ashore,  whiles  were  we  hurled 
Out  to  the  landless  ocean,  whiles  we  lay 
Long  time  within  some  river  or  deep  bay  ; 
And  so  the  months  went  by,  until  at  last, 
When  now  three  years  were  fully  overpast 
Since  we  had  left  our  fellows,  and  grown  old, 
Our  leaky  ship  along  the  water  rolled, 
Upon  a  day  unto  a  land  we  came 
Whose  people  spoke  a  tongue  wellnigh  the  same 
As  that  our  forest  people  used,  and  who 
A  little  of  the  arts  of  mankind  knew, 
And  tilled  the  kind  earth,  certes  not  in  vain  ; 
For  wealth  of  melons  we  saw  there,  and  grain 
Strange  unto  us.     Now  battered  as  we  were, 
Grown  old  before  our  time,  in  worn-out  gear, 
These  people,  when  we  first  set  foot  ashore, 
Garlands  of  flowers  and  fruits  unto  us  bore, 
And  worshipped  us  as  gods,  and  for  no  words 
That  we  could  say  would  cease  to  call  us  Lords, 
And  pray  our  help  to  give  them  bliss  and  peace, 
And  fruitful  seasons  of  the  earth's  increase. 

Withal,  at  last,  they,  when  in  talk  they  fell 
With  our  good  forest-folk,  to  them  did  tell 
That  they  were  subject  to  a  mighty  king, 
Who,  as  they  said,  ruled  over  everything, 
And,  dwelling  in  a  glorious  city,  had 
All  things  that  men  desire  to  make  them  glad. 
" He,"  said  they,  "none  the  less  shall  be  but  slave 
Unto  your  lords,  and  all  that  he  may  have 
Will  he  but  take  as  free  gifts  at  their  hands, 
If  they  will  deign  henceforth  to  bless  his  lands 
With  their  most  godlike  presence. " 

Ye  can  think 

How  we  poor  wretched  souls  outworn  might  shrink 
From  such  strange  worship,  that  like  mocking  seemed 
To  us,  who  of  a  godlike  state  had  dreamed, 
And  missed  it  in  such  wise ;  yet  none  the  less 
An  earthly  haven  to  our  wretchedness 
This  city  seemed,  therefore  we  'gan  to  pray 
That  some  of  them  would  guide  us  on  our  way, 
Which  words  of  ours  they  heard  most  joyously, 


44  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And  brought  us  to  their  houses  nigh  the  sea, 
And  feasted  us  with  such  things  as  they  might 

But  almost  ere  the  ending  of  the  night 
We  started  on  our  journey,  being  upborne 
In  litters,  like  to  kings,  who  so  forlorn 
Had  been  erewhile  ;  so  in  some  ten  days'  space 
They  brought  us  nigh  their  king's  abiding-place  ; 
And  as  we  went  the  land  seemed  fair  enough, 
Though  sometimes  did  we  pass  through  forests  rough, 
Deserts  and  fens,  yet  for  the  most,  the  way 
Through  ordered  villages  and  tilled  land  lay, 
Which,  after  all  the  squalid  miseries 
We  had  beheld,  seemed  heaven  unto  our  eyes, 
Though  strange  to  us  it  was. 

But  now  when  we 

From  a  hillside  the  city  well  could  see, 
Our  guides  there  prayed  us  to  abide  awhile, 
Wherefore  we  stayed,  though  eager  to  beguile 
Our  downcast  hearts  from  brooding  o'er  our  woe 
By  all  the  new  things  that  abode  might  show  ; 
So  while  we  bided  on  that  flowery  down 
The  swiftest  of  them  sped  on  toward  the  town 
To  bear  them  news  of  this  unhoped-for  bliss ; 
And  we,  who  now  some  little  happiness 
Could  find  in  that  fair  place  and  pleasant  air, 
Sat  'neath  strange  trees,  on  new  flowers  growing  there 
Of  scent  unlike  to  those  we  knew  of  old, 
While  unfamiliar  tales  the  strange  birds  told. 
But  certes  seemed  that  city  fair  enow 
That  spread  out  o'er  the  well-tilled  vale  below, 
Though  nowise  built  like  such  as  we  had  seen  ; 
Walled  with  white  walls  it  was,  and  gardens  green 
Were  set  between  the  houses  everywhere  ; 
And  now  and  then  rose  up  a  tower  foursquare 
Lessening  in  stage  on  stage  :  with  many  a  hue 
The  house  walls  glowed,  of  red  and  green  and  blue, 
And  some  with  gold  were  well  adorned,  and  one 
From  roofs  of  gold  flashed  back  the  noontide  sun. 
Had  we  seen  such  a  place  not  long  ago 
We  should  have  made  great  haste  to  get  thereto, 
Deeming  that  it  must  be  the  heaven  we  sought. 

But  now  while  quietly  M-C  sat,  and  thought 
Of  many  things,  the  gate  wherein  that  road 
Had  end  was  opened  wide,  and  thereout  flowed 
A  glittering  throng  of  people,  young  and  old, 
And  men  and  women,  much  aclorned  with  gold  ; 


PROLOGUE.  — THE    WANDERERS.  45 

Wherefore  we  rose  to  meet  them,  who  stood  still 
When  they  beheld  us  winding  down  the  hill, 
And  lined  both  sides  of  the  gray  road,  but  we 
Now  drawing  nigh  them,  first  of  all  could  see 
Old  men  in  venerable  raiment  clad, 
White-bearded,  who  sweet  flowering  branches  had 
In  their  right  hands,  then  young  men  armed  right  well 
After  their  way,  which  now  were  lojig  to  tell, 
Then  damsels  clad  in  radiant  gold  array, 
Who  with  sweet-smelling  blossoms  strewed  the  way 
Before  our  feet,  then  men  with  gleaming  swords 
And  glittering  robes,  and  crowned  like  mighty  lords, 
And  last  of  all,  within  the  very  gate 
The  king  himself,  round  whom  our  guides  did  wait, 
Kneeling  with  humble  faces  downward  bent. 

What  wonder  if,  as  'twixt  these  folk  we  went, 
Hearkening  their  singing  and  sweet  minstrelsy, 
A  little  nigher  seemed  our  heaven  to  be  — 
Alas,  a  fair  folk,  a  sweet  spot  of  earth, 
A  land  where  many  a  lovely  thing  has  birth, 
But  where  all  fair  things  come  at  last  to  die. 

Now  when  we  three  unto  the  king  drew  nigh 
Before  our  fellows,  he,  adored  of  all, 
Spared  not  before  us  on  his  knees  to  fall, 
And  as  we  deemed  who  knew  his  speech  but  ill, 
Began  to  pray  us  to  bide  with  him  still, 
Speaking  withal  of  some  old  prophecy 
Which  seemed  to  say  that  there  we  should  not  die. 

What  could  we  do  amidst  these  splendid  lords  ? 
No  time  it  was  to  doubt  or  make  long  words, 
Nor  with  a  short  but  happy  life  at  hand 
Durst  we  to  ask  about  the  perfect  land, 
Though  well  we  felt  the  life  whereof  he  spoke 
Could  never  be  among  those  mortal  folk. 
Therefore  we  wayworn,  disappointed  men, 
So  richly  dowered  with  threescore  years  and  ten, 
Vouchsafed  to  grant  the  king  his  whole  request, 
Thinking  within  that  town  awhile  to  rest, 
And  gather  news  about  the  hope  that  fled 
Still  on  before  us,  risen  from  the  dead, 
From  out  its  tomb  of  toil  and  misery, 
That  held  it  while  we  saw  but  sea  and  sky, 
Or  untilled  lands  and  people  void  of  bliss, 
And  our  own  faces  heavy  with  distress. 

But  entering  now  that  town,  what  huge  delight 


46  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

We  had  therein  !  how  lovely  to  our  sight 

Was  the  well-ordered  life  of  people  there, 

Who  on  that  night  within  a  palace  fair 

Made  us  a  feast  with  great  solemnity, 

Till  we  forgot  that  we  came  there  to  die 

If  we  should  leave  our  quest,  for  as  great  kings 

They  treated  us,  and  whatsoever  things 

We  asked  for,  or  could  think  of,  those  were  ours  ! 

Houses  we  had,  noble  with  walls  and  towers, 
Lovely  with  gardens,  cooled  with  running  streams, 
And  rich  with  gold  beyond  a  miser's  dreams, 
And  men  and  women  slaves,  whose  very  lives 
Were  in  our  hands  ;  and  fair  and  princely  wives 
If  so  we  would  ;  and  all  things  for  delight, 
Good  to  the  taste  or  beautiful  to  sight 
The  land  might  yield.     They  taught  us  of  their  law, 
The  muster  of  their  men-at-arms  we  saw, 
As  men  who  owned  them  ;  in  their  judgment-place 
Our  lightest  word  made  glad  the  pleader's  face, 
And  the  judge  trembled  at  our  faintest  frown. 

Think  then,  if  we,  late  driven  up  and  down 
Upon  the  uncertain  sea,  or  struggling  sore 
With  barbarous  men  upon  an  unfilled  shore, 
Or,  at  the  best,  midst  people  ignorant 
Of  arts  and  letters,  fighting  against  want 
Of  veiy  food,  — •  think  if  we  now  were  glad 
From  day  to  day,  and  as  folk  crazed  and  mad 
Deemed  our  old  selves,  the  wanderers  on  the  sea. 

And  if  at  whiles  midst  our  felicity 
We  yet  remembered  us  of  that  past  day 
When  in  the  long  swell  off  the  land  we  lay, 
Weeping  for  joy  at  our  accomplished  dream, 
And  each  to  each  a  very  god  did  seem, 
For  fear  was  dead,  — if  we  remembered  this, 
Yet  after  all,  was  this  our  life  of  bliss, 
A  little  thing  that  we  had  gained  at  last  ? 
And  must  we  sorrow  for  the  idle  past, 
Or  think  it  ill  that  thither  we  were  led  ? 
Thus  seemed  our  old  desire  quite  quenched  and  dead. 

You  must  remember,  though,  that  we  were  young, 
Five  years  had  passed  since  the  gray  fieldfare  sung 
To  me  a  dreaming  youth  laid  'neath  the  thorn, 
And  though  while  we  were  wandering  and  forlorn 
I  seemed  grown  old  and  withered  suddenly, 
But  twenty  summers  had  I  seen  go  by 


PROLOGUE.— THE    WANDERERS.  47 

When  I  left  Viken  on  that  desperate  cruise. 
But  now  again  our  wrinkles  did  we  lose 
With  memory  of  our  ills,  and  like  a  dream 
Our  fevered  quest  with  its  bad  days  did  seem, 
And  many  things  grew  fresh  again,  forgot 
While  in  our  hearts  that  wild  desire  was  hot  : 
Yea,  though  at  thought  of  Norway  we  might  sigh, 
Small  was  the  pain  which  that  sweet  memory 
Brought  with  its  images  seen  fresh  and  clear, 
And  many  an  old  familiar  tiling  grown  dear, 
We  loved  but  little  while  we  lived  with  it. 

So  smoothly  o'er  our  heads  the  days  did  flit, 
Yet  not  eventless  either,  for  we  taught 
'Such  lore  as  we  from  our  own  land  had  brought 
Unto  this  folk,  who  when  they  wrote  must  draw 
Such  draughts  as  erst  at  Micklegarth  I  saw, 
Writ  for  the  evil  Pharaoh-kings  of  old  ; 
Their  arms  were  edged  with  copper  or  with  gold, 
Whereof  they  had  great  plenty,  or  with  flint ; 
No  armor  had  they  fit  to  bear  the  dint 
Of  tools  like  ours,  and  little  could  avail 
Their  archer  craft ;  their  boats  knew  naught  of  sail, 
And  many  a  feat  of  building  could  we  show, 
Which  midst  their  splendor  still  they  did  not  know. 

And  midst  of  all,  war  fell  upon  the  land, 
And  in  forefront  of  battle  must  we  stand, 
To  do  our  best,  though  little  mastery 
We  thought  it  then  to  make  such  foemen  flee 
As  there  we  met ;  but  when  again  we  came 
Into  the  town,  with  something  like  to  shame 
We  took  the  worship  of  that  simple  folk 
Rejoicing  for  their  freedom  from  the  yoke 
That  round  about  their  necks  had  hung  so  long. 

For  thus  that  war  began  :  some  monarch  strong 
Conquered  their  land  of  old,  and  thereon  laid 
A  dreadful  tribute,  which  they  still  had  paid 
With  tears  and  curses  ;  for  as  each  fifth  year 
Came  round,  this  heavy  shame  they  needs  must  bear : 
Ten  youths,  ten  maidens,  must  they  choose  by  lot 
Among  the  fairest  that  they  then  had  got, 
Who  a  long  journey  o'er  the  hills  must  go 
Unto  the  tyrant,  nor  with  signs  of  woe 
Enter  his  city,  but  in  bright  array, 
And  harbingered  by  songs  and  carols  gay, 
Betake  them  to  the  temple  of  his  god  ; 


48  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

But  when  the  streets  their  weary  feet  had  trod 
Their  wails  must  crown  the  long  festivity, 
For  on  the  golden  altar  must  they  die. 

Such  was  the  sentence  till  the  year  we  came, 
And  counselled  them  to  put  away  this  shame 
If  they  must  die  therefor,  so  on  that  year 
Barren  of  blood  the  devil's  altars  were, 
Wherefore  a  herald  clad  in  strange  attire 
The  tyrant  sent  them,  and  but  blood  and  fire 
His  best  words  were  ;  him  they  sent  back  again 
Defied  by  us,  who  made  his  threats  but  vain, 
When  face  to  face  with  those  ill  folk  we  stood 
Ready  to  seal  our  counsel  with  our  blood. 

Past  all  belief  they  loved  us  for  all  this, 
And  if  it  would  have  added  to  our  bliss 
That  they  should  die,  this  surely  they  had  done  ; 
So  smoothly  slipped  the  years  past  one  by  one, 
And  we  had  lived  and  died  as  happy  there 
As  any  men  the  laboring  earth  may  bear, 
But  for  the  poison  of  that  wickedness 
That  led  us  on  God's  edicts  to  redress. 
At  first  indeed  death  seemed  so  far  away, 
So  sweet  in  our  new  home  was  every  day, 
That  we  forgot  death  like  the  most  of  men 
Who  cannot  count  the  threescore  years  and  ten  ; 
Yet  we  grew  fearful  as  the  time  drew  on, 
And  needs  must  think  of  all  we  might  have  won, 
Yea,  by  so  much  the  happier  that  we  were 
By  just  so  much  increased  on  us  our  fear, 
And  those  old  times  of  our  past  misery 
Seemed  not  so  evil  as  the  days  went  by 
Faster  and  faster  with  the  year's  increase, 
For  loss  of  youth  to  us  was  loss  of  peace. 

Two  gates  unto  the  road  of  life  there  are, 
And  to  the  happy  youth  both  seem  afar,  — 
Both  seem  afar,  so  far  the  past  one  seems, 
The  gate  of  birth,  made  dim  with  many  dreams, 
Bright  with  remembered  hopes,  beset  with  flowers  ; 
So  far  it  seems  he  cannot  count  the  hours 
That  to  this  midway  path  have  led  him  on 
Where  every  joy  of  life  now  seemeth  won,  — 
So  far,  he  thinks  not  of  the  other  gate, 
Within  whose  shade  the  ghosts  of  dead  hopes  wait 
To  call  upon  him  as  he  draws  anear, 
Despoiled,  alone,  and  dull  with  many  a  fear, 


PROLOGUE—  THE    WANDERERS.  49 

"  Where  is  thy  work  ?  how  little  thou  hast  done, 
Where  are  thy  friends,  why  art  thou  so  alone  ?  " 

How  shall  he  weigh  his  life  ?  slow  goes  the  time 
The  while  the  fresh  dew-sprinkled  hill  we  climb, 
Thinking  of  what  shall  be  the  other  side, 
Slow  pass  perchance  the  minutes  we  abide 
On  the  gained  summit,  blinking  at  the  sun  ; 
But  when  the  downward  journey  is  begun 
No  more  our  feet  may  loiter,  past  our  ears 
Shrieks  the  harsh  wind  scarce  noted  midst  our  fears, 
And  battling  with  the  hostile  things  we  meet, 
Till,  ere  we  know  it,  our  weak,  shrinking  feet 
Have  brought  us  to  the  end  and  all  is  done. 

And  so  with  us  it  was,  when  youth  twice  won 
Now  for  the  second  time  had  passed  away, 
And  we  unwitting  were  grown  old  and  gray, 
And  one  by  one,  the  death  of  some  clear  friend, 
Some  cherished  hope,  brought  to  a  troublous  end 
Our  joyous  life  ;  as  in  a  dawn  of  June 
The  lover,  dreaming  of  the  brown  bird's  tune 
And  longing  lips  unto  his  own  brought  near, 
Wakes  up  the  crashing  thunder-peal  to  hear. 
So,  sirs,  when  this  world's  pleasures  came  to  naught, 
Not  upon  God  we  set  our  wayward  thought, 
But  on  the  folly  our  own  hearts  had  made ; 
Once  more  the  stories  of  the  past  we  weighed 
With  what  we  hitherto  hacl  found,  once  more 
We  longed  to  be  by  some  unknown  far  shore, 
Once  more  our  life  seemed  trivial,  poor,  and  vain, 
Till  we  our  lost  fool's  paradise  might  gain, 
And  we  were  like  the  felon  doomed  to  die, 
Who  when  unto  the  sword  he  draws  anigh 
Struggles  and  cries,  though  erewhile  in  his  cell 
He  heard  the  priest  of  heaven  and  pardon  tell, 
Weeping  and  half  contented  to  be  slain. 

Was  I  the  first  who  thought  of  this  again  ? 
Perchance  I  was,  but  howsoe'er  that  be 
Long  time  I  thought  of  these  things  certainly 
Ere  I  durst  stir  my  fellows  to  the  quest, 
Though  secretly  myself,  with  little  rest 
For  tidings  of  our  lovely  land  I  sought. 
Should  prisoners  from  another  folk  be  brought 
Unto  our  town,  I  questioned  them  of  this  ; 
I  asked  the  wandering  merchants  of  a  bliss 
4 


50  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

They  dreamed  not  of,  in  chaffering  for  their  goods  ; 

The  hunter  in  the  far-off  lonely  woods, 

The  fisher  in  the  rivers  nigh  the  sea, 

Must  tell  their  wild  strange  stories  unto  me. 

Within  the  temples  books  of  records  lay 

Such  as  I  told  of,  thereon  day  by  day 

I  pored,  and  got  long  stories  from  the  priests 

Of  many-handed  gods  with  heads  of  beasts, 

And  such  like  dreariness ;  and  still,  midst  all 

Sometimes  a  glimmering  light  would  seem  to  fall 

Upon  my  ignorance,  and  less  content 

As  time  went  on  I  grew,  and  ever  went 

About  my  daily  life  distractedly, 

Until  at  last  I  felt  that  I  must  die 

Or  to  my  fellows  tell  what  in  me  was. 

So  on  a  day  I  came  to  Nicholas 
And  trembling  'gan  to  tell  of  this  and  that, 
And  as  I  spoke  with  downcast  eyes  I  sat 
Fearing  to  see  some  scorn  within  his  eyes, 
Or  horror  at  unhappy  memories  ; 
But  now,  when  mine  eyes  could  no  longer  keep 
The  tears  from  falling,  he  too,  nigh  to  weep, 
Spoke  out,  "  O  Rolf,  why  hast  thou  come  to  me, 
Who,  thinking  I  was  happy,  now  must  see 
That  only  with  the  ending  of  our  breath, 
Or  by  that  fair  escape  from  fear  and  death, 
Can  we  forget  the  hope  that  erewhile  led 
Our  little  band  to  woe  and  drearihead  ? 
But  now  are  we  grown  old,  Rolf,  and  to-day 
Life  is  a  little  thing  to  cast  away, 
Nor  can  we  suffer  many  years  of  it 
If  all  goes  wrong,  so  no  more  will  I  sit, 
Praying  for  all  the  things  that  cannot  be  : 
Tell  thou  our  fellows  what  thou  tellest  me, 
Nor  fear  that  I  will  leave  you  in  your  need." 

Well,  sirs,  with  all  the  rest  I  had  such  speed 
That  men  enough  of  us  resolved  to  go 
The  very  bitterness  of  Death  to  know 
Or  else  to  conquer  him  ;  some  idle  tale 
With  our  kind  hosts  would  plenteously  avail, 
For  of  our  quest  we  durst  not  tell  them  aught, 
Since  something  more  than  doubt  was  in  our  thought, 
Though  unconfessed,  that  we  should  fail  at  last, 
Nor  had  we  quite  forgot  our  perils  past. 

Alas  !  can  weak  men  hide  such  thoughts  as  these  ? 


PROLOGUE.  — THE    WANDERERS.  51 

I  think  the  summer  wind  that  bows  the  trees 
Through  which  the  dreamer  wandereth  muttering 
Will  bear  abroad  some  knowledge  of  the  thing 
That  so  consumes  him  ;  hovvsoe'er  that  be, 
We,  born  to  drink  the  dregs  of  misery, 
Found  in  the  end  that  some  one  knew  our  aim. 

For  while  we  weighed  the  chances  of  the  game 
That  we  must  play,  nor  yet  knew  what  to  shun, 
Or  what  to  do,  there  came  a  certain  one, 
A  young  man  strange  within  the  place,  to  me, 
Who,  swearing  me  at  first  to  secrecy, 
Began  to  tell  me  of  the  hoped-for  land. 
The  trap  I  saw  not,  with  a  shaking  hand 
And  beating  heart,  unto  the  notes  of  years 
I  turned,  long  parchments  blotted  with  my  tears, 
And  tremulously  read  them  out  aloud  ; 
But  still,  because  the  hurrying  thoughts  would  crowd 
My  whirling  brain,  scarce  heard  the  words  1  read. 
Yet  in  the  end  it  seemed  that  what  he  said 
Tallied  with  that,  heaped  up  so  painfully. 

Now  listen  !  this  being  done,  he  said  to  me, 
' '  O  godlike  Eastern  man,  believest  thou 
That  I  who  look  so  young  and  ruddy  now 
Am  very  old  ?  because  in  sooth  I  come 
To  seek  thee  and  to  lead  thee  to  our  home 
With  all  thy  fellows.     But  if  thou  dost  not, 
Come  now  with  me,  for  nigh  unto  this  spot 
My  brother,  left  behind,  an  ancient  man 
Now  dwelleth,  but  as  gray -haired,  weak,  and  wan 
As  I  am  fresh ;  of  me  he  doth  not  know, 
So  surely  shall  our  speech  together  show 
The  truth  of  this  my  message."     "  Yea,"  said  I, 
"  I  doubt  thee  not,  yet  would  I  certainly 
Hear  the  old  man  talk  if  he  liveth  yet, 
That  I  a  clearer  tale  of  this  may  set 
Before  my  fellows  ;  come  then,  lead  me  there." 

Thus  easily  I  fell  into  the  snare  ; 
For  as  along  the  well-known  streets  we  went, 
An  old  hoar  man  there  met  us,  weak  and  bent, 
Who  staying  us,  the  while  with  age  he  shook, 
My  lusty  fellow  by  the  shoulder  took, 
And  said,  "O  stranger,  canst  thou  be  the  son, 
Or  but  the  younger  double  of  such  an  one, 
Who  dwelt  once  in  the  weaver's  street  hereby  ?  " 

But  the  young  man  looked  on  him  lovingly, 
And  said,  "  O  certes,  thou  art  now  grown  old 


52  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE, 

That  thou  thy  younger  brother  canst  behold 
And  call  him  stranger."     "  Yea,  yea,  old  enow," 
The  other  said,  "  what  fables  talkest  thou  ? 
My  brother  has  but  three  years  less  than  I, 
Nor  dealeth  time  with  men  so  marvellously 
That  he  should  seem  like  twenty,  I  fourscore  : 
Thou  art  my  nephew,  let  the  jest  pass  o'er. " 

"  Nay,"  said  he,  "but  it  is  not  good  to  talk 
Here  in  the  crowded  street,  so  let  us  walk 
Unto  thine  habitation  ;  dost  thou  mind, 
When  we  were  boys,  how  once  we  chanced  to  find 
That  crock  of  copper  money  hid  away 
Up  in  the  loft,  and  how  on  that  same  day 
We  bought  this  toy  and  that,  thou  a  short  sword 
And  I  a  brazen  boat  ?  " 

But  at  that  word 

The  old  man  wildly  on  him  'gan  to  stare 
And  said  no  more,  the  while  we  three  did  fare 
Unto  his  house,  but  there  we  being  alone, 
Many  undoubted  signs  the  younger  one 
Gave  to  his  brother,  saying  withal,  that  he 
Had  gained  the  land  of  all  felicity, 
Where,  after  trials  then  too  long  to  tell, 
The  slough  of  grisly  eld  from  off  him  fell, 
And  left  him  strong,  and  fair,  and  young  again  ; 
Neither  from  that  time  had  he  suffered  pain 
Greater  or  less,  or  feared  at  all  to  die  : 
And  though,  he  said,  he  knew  not  certainly 
If  he  should  live  forever,  this  he  knew, 
His  days  should  not  be  full  of  pain  and  few 
As  most  men's  lives  were.     Now  when  asked  why  he 
Had  left  his  home,  a  deadly  land  to  see, 
He  said  that  people's  chiefs  had  sent  him  there, 
Moved  by  report  that  tall  men,  white  and  fair, 
Like  to  the  Gods,  had  come  across  the  sea, 
Of  whom  old  seers  had  told  that  they  should  be 
Lords  of  that  land,  therefore  his  charge  was  this, 
To  lead  us  forth  to  that  abode  of  bliss, 
But  secretly,  since  for  the  other  folk 
They  were  as  beasts  to  toil  beneath  the  yoke. 
"  But,"  said  he,  "  brother,  thou  shalt  go  with  me, 
If  now  at  last  no  doubt  be  left  in  thee 
Of  who  I  am." 

At  that,  to  end  it  all 

The  weak  old  man  upon  his  neck  did  fall, 
Rejoicing  for  his  lot  with  many  tears  : 


PROLOGUE.— THE    WANDERERS.  53 

But  I,  rejoicing  too,  yet  felt  vague  fears 
Within  rrty  heart,  for  now  almost  too  nigh 
We  seemed  to  that  long-sought  felicity. 
What  should  I  do  though  ?     What  could  it  avail 
Unto  these  men,  to  make  a  feigned  tale  ? 
Besides  in  all  no  faltering  could  I  find, 
Nor  did  they  go  beyond,  or  fall  behind, 
What  in  such  cases  such  like  men  would  do,  • 
Therefore  I  needs  must  think  their  story  true. 

So  now  unto  my  fellows  did  I  go 
And  all  things  in  due  order  straight  did  show, 
And  had  the  man  who  told  the  tale  at  hand  ; 
Of  whom  some  made  great  question  of  the  land, 
And  where  it  was,  and  how  he  found  it  first ; 
And  still  he  answered  boldly  to  the  worst 
Of  all  their  questions  :  then  from  out  the  place 
He  went,  and  we  were  left  there  face  to  face. 

And  joy  it  was  to  see  the  dark  cheeks,  tanned 
By  many  a  summer  of  that  fervent  land, 
Flush  up  with  joy,  and  see  the  gray  eyes  gleam 
Through  the  dull  film  of  years,  as  that  sweet  dream 
Flickered  before  them,  now  grown  real  and  true. 

But  when  the  certainty  of  all  we  knew, 
Dreaming  for  sure  our  quest  would  not  be  vain, 
We  got  us  ready  for  the  sea  again. 
But  to  the  city's  folk  we  told  no  more 
Than  that  we  needs  must'make  for  some  far  shore, 
Whence  we  would  come  again  to  them,  and  bring, 
For  them  and  us,  full  many  a  wished-for  thing 
To  make  them  glad. 

Then  answered  they  indeed 
That  our  departing  made  their  hearts  to  bleed, 
But  with  no  long  words  prayed  us  still  to  stay, 
And  I  remembered  me  of  that  past  day, 
And  somewhat  grieved  I  felt,  that  so  it  was  : 
Not  thinking  how  the  deeds  of  men  must  pass, 
And  their  remembrance  as  their  bodies  die, 
Or,  if  their  memories  fade  not  utterly, 
Like  curious  pictures  shall  they  be  at  best, 
For  men  to  gaze  at  while  they  sit  at  rest, 
Talking  of  alien  things  and  feasting  well. 

Ah  me  !  I  loiter,  being  right  loath  to  tell 
The  things  that  happened  to  us  in  the  end. 
Down  to  the  noble  river  did  we  wend 
Where  lay  the  ships  we  taught  these  folk  to  make, 


54  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And  there  the  fairest  of  them  did  we  take 

And  so  began  our  voyage  ;  thirty-three 

Were  left  of  us,  who  erst  had  crossed  the  sea, 

Five  of  the  forest  people,  and  beside 

None  but  the  fair  young  man,  our  new-found  guide, 

And  his  old  brother  ;  setting  sail  with  these 

We  left  astern  our  gilded  palaces 

And  all  the  good  things  God  had  given  us  there 

With  small  regret,  however  good  they  were. 

Well,  in  twelve  days  our  vessel  reached  the  sea, 
When  turning  round  we  ran  on  northerly 
In  sight  of  land  at  whiles  ;  what  need  to  say 
How  the  time  passed  from  hopeful  day  to  day  ? 
Suffice  it  that  the  wind  was  fair  and  good, 
And  we  most  joyful,  as  still  north  we  stood  ; 
Until  when  we  a  month  at  sea  had  been, 
And  for  six  days  no  land  at  all  had  seen, 
We  sighted  it  once  more,  whereon  our  guide 
Shouted,  "  O  fellows,  lay  all  fear  aside, 
This  is  the  land  whereof  I  spake  to  you," 
But  when  the  happy  tidings  all  men  knew, 
Trembling  and  pale  we  watched  the  land  grow  great, 
And  when  above  the  waves  the  noontide  heat 
Had  raised  a  vapor  'twixt  us  and  the  land 
That  afternoon,  we  saw  a  high  ness  stand 
Out  in  the  sea,  and  nigher  when  we  came, 
And  all  the  sky  with  sunset  was  aflame, 
'Neath  the  dark  hill  we  saw  a  city  lie, 
Washed  by  the  waves,  girt  round  with  ramparts  high. 

A  little  nigher  yet,  and  then  our  guide 
Bade  us  to  anchor,  lowering  from  our  side 
The  sailless  keel  wherein  he  erst  had  come, 
Through  many  risks,  to  bring  us  to  his  home. 
But  when  our  eager  hands  this  thing  had  done, 
He  and  his  brother  gat  therein  alone. 
But  first  he  said,  "  Abide  here  till  the  mom, 
And  when  ye  hear  the  sound  of  harp  and  horn, 
And  varied  music,  run  out  every  oar, 
Up  anchor,  and  make  boldly  for  the  shore. 
O  happy  men  !  wellnigh  do  I  regret 
That  I  am  not  as  you,  to  whom  as  yet 
That  moment  past  all  moments  is  unknown, 
When  first  unending  life  to  you  is  shown. 
But  now  I  go,  that  all  in  readiness 
May  be,  your  souls  with  this  delight  to  bless. " 

He  waved  farewell  to  us  and  went,  but  we, 


PROLOGUE.— THE    WANDERERS.  55 

As  the  night  grew,  beheld  across  the  sea 

Lights  moving  on  the  quays,  and  now  and  then 

We  heard  the  chanting  of  the  outland  men. 

How  can  I  tell  of  that  strange  troublous  night, 

Troublous  and  strange,  though  'neath  the  moonshine  white, 

Peace  seemed  upon  the  sea,  the  glimmering  town, 

The  shadows  of  the  tree-besprinkled  down, 

The  moveless  dewy  folds  of  our  loose  sail  ? 

But  how  could  these  for  peace  to  us  avail  ? 

Weary  with  longing,  blind  with  great  amaze, 
We  struggled  now  with  past  and  future  days  ; 
And  not  in  vain  our  former  joy  we  thought, 
Since  thirty  years  our  wandering  feet  had  brought 
To  this  at  last,  —  and  yet,  what  will  you  have  ? 
Can  man  be  made  content  ?     We  wished  to  save 
The  bygone  years  ;  our  hope,  our  painted  toy, 
We  feared  to  miss,  drowned  in  that  sea  of  joy. 
Old  faces  still  reproached  us  :   "  We  are  gone, 
And  ye  are  entering  into  bliss  alone  ; 
And  can  ye  now  forget  ?     Year  passes  year, 
And  still  ye  live  on  joyous,  free  from  fear  ; 
But  where  are  we  ?  where  is  the  memory 
Of  us,  to  whom  ye  once  were  drawn  so  nigh  ? 
Forgetting  and  alone  ye  enter  in  ; 
Remembering  all,  alone  we  wail  our  sin, 
And  cannot  touch  you. "  —  Ah,  the  blessed  pain ! 
When  heaven  just  gained  was  scarcely  all  a  gain. 
How  could  we  weigh  that  boundless  treasure  then, 
Or  count  the  sorrows  of  the  sons  of  men  ? 
Ah,  woe  is  me  to  think  upon  that  night  ! 

Day  came,  and  with  the  dawning  of  the  light 
We  were  astir,  and  from  our  deck  espied 
The  people  clustering  by  the  water-side, 
As  if  to  meet  us  ;  then  across  the  sea 
We  heard  great  horns  strike  up  triumphantly, 
And  then  scarce  knowing  what  we  did,  we  weighed 
And  running  out  the  oars  for  shore  we  made, 
With  banners  fluttering  out  from  yard  and  mast. 

We  reached  the  well-built  marble  quays  at  last, 
Crowded  with  folk,  and  in  the  front  of  these 
There  stood  our  guide,  decked  out  with  braveries, 
Holding  his  feeble  brother  by  the  hand, 
Then  speechless,  trembling,  did  we  now  take  land, 
Leaving  all  woes  behind,  but  when  our  feet 
The  happy  soil  of  that  blest  land  did  meet, 


56  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Fast  fell  our  tears,  as  on  a  July  day 

The  thunder-shower  falls  pattering  on  the  way, 

And  certes  some  one  we  desired  to  bless, 

But  scarce  knew  whom  midst  all  our  thankfulness. 

Now  the  crowd  opened,  and  an  ordered  band 
Of  youths  and  damsels,  flowering  boughs  in  hand, 
Came  forth  to  meet  us,  just  as  long  ago, 
When  first  we  won  some  rest  from  pain  and  woe, 
Except  that  now  eld  chained  not  any  one, 
No  man  was  wrinkled  but  ourselves  alone, 
But  smooth  and  beautiful,  bright-eyed  and  glad, 
Were  all  we  saw,  in  fair  thin  raiment  clad 
Fit  for  the  sunny  place. 

But  now  our  friend, 

Our  guide,  who  brought  us  to  this  glorious  end, 
Led  us  amidst  that  band,  who  'gan  to  sing 
Some  hymn  of  welcome,  midst  whose  carolling 
Faint-hearted  men  we  must  have  been  indeed 
To  doubt  that  all  was  won ;  nor  did  we  heed 
That,  when  we  well  were  gotten  from  the  quay, 
Armed  men  went  past  us,  by  the  very  way 
That  we  had  come,  nor  thought  of  their  inten^ 
For  armor  unto  us  was  ornament, 
And  had  been  now,  for  many  peaceful  years, 
Since  bow  and  axe  had  dried  the  people's  tears. 

Let  all  that  pass  —  with  song  and  minstrelsy 
Through  many  streets  they  led  us,  fair  to  see, 
For  nowhere  did  we  meet  maimed,  poor,  or  old, 
But  all  were  young  and  clad  in  silk  and  gold. 
Like  a  king's  court  the  common  ways  did  seem 
On  that  fair  morn  of  our  accomplished  dream. 

Far  did  we  go,  through  market-place  and  square, 
Past  fane  and  palace,  till  a  temple  fair 
We  came  to,  set  aback  midst  towering  trees, 
But  raised  above  the  tallest  of  all  these. 
So  there  we  entered  through  a  brazen  gate, 
And  all  the  thronging  folk  without  did  wait, 
Except  the  golden-clad  melodious  band. 
But  when  within  the  precinct  we  did  stand, 
Another  rampart  girdled  round  the  fane, 
And  that  being  past  another  one  again, 
And  small  space  was  betwixt  them,  all  these  three 
Of  white  stones  laid  in  wondrous  masonry 
Were  builded,  but  the  fourth  we  now  passed  through 
Was  half  of  white  and  half  of  ruddy  hue  ; 
Nor  did  we  reach  the  temple  through  this  one, 


PROLOGUE.— THE   WANDERERS.  57 

For  now  a  fifth  wall  came,  of  dark  red  stone 
With  golden  coping  and  wide  doors  of  gold  ; 
And  this  being  past,  our  eyes  could  then  behold 
The  marvellous  temple,  foursquare,  rising  high 
In  stage  on  stage  up  toward  the  summer  sky, 
Like  the  unfinished  tower  that  Nimrod  built 
Before  the  concord  of  the  world  was  spilt 

So  now  we  came  into  the  lowest  hall, 
A  mighty  way  across  from  wall  to  wall, 
Where  carven  pillars  held  a  gold  roof  up, 
And  silver  walls,  fine  as  an  Indian  cup, 
With  figures  monstrous  as  a  dream  were  wrought, 
And  underfoot  the  floor  beyond  all  thought 
Was  wonderful,  for  like  the  tumbling  sea 
Beset  with  monsters  did  it  seem  to  be ; 
But  in  the  midst  a  pool  of  ruddy  gold 
Caught  in  its  waves  a  glittering  fountain  cold, 
And  through  the  bright  shower  of  its  silver  spray 
Dimly  we  saw  the  high  raised  dais,  gay 
With  wondrous  hangings,  for  high  up  and  small 
The  windows  were  within  the  dreamlike  hall ; 
Betwixt  the  pillars  wandered  damsels  fair 
Crooning  low  songs,  or  filling  all  the  air 
With  incense  wafted  to  strange  images 
That  made  us  tremble,  since  we  saw  in  these 
The  devils  unto  whom  we  now  must  cry 
Ere  we  began  our  new  felicity  ; 
Nathless  no  altars  did  we  see  but  one 
Which  dimly  from  before  the  dais  shone 
Built  of  green  stone,  with  horns  of  copper  bright 

Now  when  we  entered  from  the  outer  light 
And  all  the  scents  of  the  fresh  day  were  past, 
With  its  sweet  breezes,  a  dull  shade  seemed  cast 
Over  our  joy  ;  what  then  ?  not  if  we  would 
Could  we  turn  back  —  and  surely  all  was  good. 

But  now  they  brought  us  vestments  rich  and  fair, 
And  bade  us  our  own  raiment  put  off  there, 
Which  straight  we  did,  and  with  a  hollow  sound 
Like  mournful  bells  our  armor  smote  the  ground, 
And  damsels  took  the  weapons  from  our  hands 
That  might  have  gleamed  with  death  in  other  lands, 
And  won  us  praise  ;  at  last  when  all  was  done, 
And  brighter  than  the  Kaiser  each  man  shone, 
Us  unarmed  helpless  men  the  music  led 
Up  to  the  da'is,  and  there  our  old  guide  said, 
"Best,  happy  men,  the  time  will  not  be  long 


58  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Ere  they  will  bring  with  incense,  dance,  and  song 
The  sacred  cup,  your  life  and  happiness, 
And  many  a  time  this  fair  hour  shall  ye  bless." 

Alas,  sirs  !  words  are  weak  to  tell  of  it, 
I  seemed  to  see  a  smile  of  mockery  flit 
Across  his  face  as  from  our  thrones  he  turned, 
And  in  my  heart  a  sudden  fear  there  burned, 
The  last,  I  said,  for  ever  and  a  day ; 
But  even  then  with  harsh  and  ominous  bray 
A  trumpet  through  the  monstrous  pillars  rung, 
And  to  our  feet  with  sudden  fear  we  sprung  ;  — 
Too  late,  too  late  !  for  through  all  doors  did  stream 
Armed  men,  that  filled  the  place  with  clash  and  gleam, 
And  when  the  dull  sound  of  their  moving  feet 
Was  still,  a  fearful  sight  our  eyes  did  meet, 
A  fearful  sight  to  us  —  old  men  and  gray 
Betwixt  the  bands  of  soldiers  took  their  way, 
And  at  their  head  in  wonderful  attire, 
Holding  within  his  hand  a  pot  of  fire, 
Moved  the  false  brother  of  the  traitorous  guide, 
Who  with  bowed  head  walked  ever  by  his  side ; 
But  as  anigh  the  elders  'gan  to  draw, 
We,  almost  turned  to  stone  by  what  we  saw, 
Heard  the  old  man  say  to  the  younger  one, 
"  Speak  to  them  that  thou  knowest,  O  fair  Son  !  " 

Then  the  wretch  said,  "  O  ye,  who  sought  to  find 
Unending  life  against  the  law  of  kind, 
Within  this  land,  fear  ye  not  now  too  much, 
For  no  man's  hand  your  bodies  here  shall  touch, 
But  rather  with  all  reverence  folk  shall  tend 
Your  daily  lives,  until  at  last  they  end 
By  slow  decay  :  and  ye  shall  pardon  us 
The  trap  whereby  beings  made  so  glorious 
As  ye  are  made,  we  drew  unto  this  place. 
Rest  ye  content  then  !  for  although  your  race 
Comes  from  the  gods,  yet  are  ye  conquered  here, 
As  we  would  conquer  them,  if  we  knew  where 
They  dwell  from  day  to  day,  and  with  what  arms 
We,  overcoming  them,  might  win  such  charms 
That  we  might  make  the  world  what  ye  desire. 

"  Rest  then  at  ease,  and  if  ye  e'er -shall  tire 
Of  this  abode,  remember  at  the  worst 
Life  flitteth,  whether  it  be  blessed  or  cursed. 
But  will  ye  tire  ?  ye  are  our  gods  on  earth 
Whiles  that  ye  live,  nor  shall  your  lives  lack  mirth, 


PROLOGUE.— THE    WANDERERS.  59 

For  song,  fair  women,  and  heart-cheering  wine 
The  chain  of  solemn  days  shall  here  intwine 
With  odorous  flowers  ;  ah,  surely  ye  are  come, 
When  all  is  said,  unto  an  envied  home." 

Like  an  old  dream,  dreamed  in  another  dream, 
I  hear  his  voice  now,  see  the  hopeless  gleam, 
Through  the  dark  place  of  that  thick  wood  of  spears. 
That  fountain's  splash  rings  yet  within  mine  ears 
I  thought  the  fountain  of  eternal  youth,  — 
Yet  I  can  scarce  remember  in  good  truth 
What  then  I  felt :  I  should  have  felt  as  he, 
Who,  waking  after  some  festivity, 
Sees  a  dim  land,  and  things  unspeakable, 
And  comes  to  know  at  last  that  it  is  hell,  — 
I  cannot  tell  you,  nor  can  tell  you  why 
Driven  by  what  hope,  I  cried  my  battle  cry 
And  rushed  upon  him  ;  this  I  know  indeed 
My  naked  hands  were  good  to  me  at  need, 
That  sent  the  traitor  to  his  due  reward, 
Ere  I  was  dragged  off  by  the  hurrying  guard, 
Who  spite  of  all  used  neither  sword  nor  spear, 
Nay,  as  it  seemed,  touched  us  with  awe  and  fear. 
Though  at  the  last  grown  all  too  weak  to  strive 
They  brought  us  to  the  dais  scarce  alive, 
And  changed  our  tattered  robes  again,  and  there 
Bound  did  we  sit,  each  in  his  golden  chair, 
Beholding  many  mummeries  that  they  wrought 
About  the  altar  ;  till  at  last  they  brought, 
Crowned  with  fair  flowers,  and  clad  in  robes  of  gold, 
The  folk  that  from  the  wood  we  won  of  old  — 
Why  make  long  words  ?  before  our  very  eyes 
Our  friends  they  slew,  a  fitting  sacrifice 
To  us  their  new-gained  gods,  who  sought  to  find 
Within  that  land,  a  people  just  and  kind 
Who  could  not  die,  or  take  away  the  breath 
From  living  men. 

What  thing  but  that  same  death 
Had  we  left  now  to  hope  for  ?  death  must  come 
And  find  us  somewhere  an  enduring  home. 
Will  grief  kill  men,  as  some  folk  think  it  will  ? 
Then  are  we  of  all  men  most  hard  to  kill. 
The  time  went  past,  the  dreary  days  went  by 
In  dull  unvarying  round  of  misery, 
Nor  can  I  tell  if  it  went  fast  or  slow, 
What  would  it  profit  you  the  time  to  know 


60  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

That  we  spent  there  ;  all  I  can  say  to  you 

Is,  that  no  hope  our  prison  wall  shone  through, 

That  ever  we  were  guarded  carefully, 

While  day  and  dark  and  dark  and  day  went  by 

Like  such  a  dream,  as  in  the  early  night 

The  sleeper  wakes  from  in  such  sore  affright, 

Such  panting  horror,  that  to  sleep  again 

He  will  not  turn,  to  meet  such  shameful  pain. 

Lo  such  were  we,  but  as  we  hoped  before 
Where  no  hope  was,  so  now,  when  all  seemed  o'er 
But  sorrow  for  our  lives  so  cast  away, 
Again  the  bright  sun  brought  about  the  day. 

At  last  the  temple's  dull  monotony 
Was  broke  by  noise  of  armed  men  hurrying  by 
Within  the  precinct,  and  we  seemed  to  hear 
Shouts  from  without  of  anger  and  of  fear, 
And  noises  as  of  battle  ;  and  red  blaze 
The  night  sky  showed  ;  this  lasted  through  two  days. 
But  on  the  third  our  guards  were  whispering 
Pale-faced,  as  though  they  feared  some  coming  thing, 
And  when  the  din  increased  about  noontide, 
No  longer  there  with  us  would  they  abide, 
But  left  us  free  ;  judge  then  if  our  hearts  beat, 
When  any  pain  or  death  itself  was  sweet 
To  hideous  life  within  that  wicked  place, 
Where  every  day  brought  on  its  own  disgrace. 

Few  words  betwixt  us  passed,  we  knew  indeed 
Where  our  old  armor  once  so  good  at  need 
Hung  up  as  relics  nigh  the  altar-stead, 
Thither  we  hurried,  and  from  heel  to  head 
Soon  were  we  armed,  and  our  old  spears  and  swords 
Clashing  'gainst  steel  and  stone,  spoke  hopeful  words 
To  us,  the  children  of  a  warrior  race. 
But  round  unto  the  hubbub  did  we  face 
And  through  the  precinct  strove  to  make  our  way 
Set  close  together  ;  in  besmirched  array 
Some  met  us,  and  some  wounded  very  sore, 
And  some  who  wounded  men  to  harbor  bore  ; 
But  these,  too  busy  with  their  pain  or  woe 
To  note  us  much,  unchallenged  let  us  go  ; 
Then  here  and  there  we  passed  some  shrinking  maid 
In  a  dark  comer  trembling  and  afraid, 
But  eager  for  the  news  about  the  fight. 
Through  trodden  gardens  then  we  came  in  sight 
Of  the  third  rampart  that  begirt  the  fane, 


PROLOGUE.— THE   WANDERERS.  61 

Which  now  the  foemen  seemed  at  point  to  gain, 

For  o'er  the  wall  the  ladders  'gan  to  show, 

And  huge  confusion  was  there  down  below 

'Twixt  wall  and  wall ;  but  as  the  gate  we  passed 

A  man  from  out  the  crowd  came  hurrying  fast, 

But,  drawing  nigh  us,  stopped  short  suddenly, 

And  cried,  "  O  masters,  help  us  or  we  die  ! 

This  impious  people  'gainst  their  ancient  lords 

Have  turned,  and  in  their  madness  drawn  their  swords. 

Yea,  and  they  now  prevail,  and  fearing  not 

The  dreadful  gods  still  grows  their  wrath  more  hot 

Wherefore  to  bring  you  here  was  my  intent, 

But  the  kind  gods  themselves  your  hands  have  sent 

To  save  us  all,  and  this  fair  holy  house 

With  your  strange  arms,  and  hearts  most  valorous." 

No  word  we  said,  for  even  as  he  spoke 
A  frightful  clamor  from  the  wall  outbroke, 
As  the  thin  line  of  soldiers  thereupon 
Crushed  back,  and  broken,  left  the  rampart  won, 
And  leapt  and  tumbled  therefrom  as  they  could, 
While  in  their  place  the  conquering  foemen  stood  : 
Then  the  weak,  wavering,  huddled  crowd  below 
Their  weight  upon  the  inner  wall  'gan  throw, 
And  at  the  narrow  gates  by  hundreds  died  ; 
For  not  long  did  the  enemy  abide 
On  the  gained  rampart,  but  by  every  way 
Got  to  the  ground  and  'gan  all  round  to  slay, 
Till  great  and  grim  the  slaughter  grew  to  be. 
But  we  well  pleased  our  tyrants'  end  to  see 
Still  firm  against  the  inner  wall  did  stand, 
While  round  us  surged  the  press  on  either  hand. 
Nor  did  we  fear,  for  what  was  left  of  life 
For  us  to  fear  for  ?  so  at  last  the  strife 
Drawn  inward,  in  that  place  did  much  abate, 
And  we  began  to  move  unto  the  gate 
Betwixt  the  dead  and  living,  and  these  last 
Ever  with  fearful  glances  by  us  passed 
Nor  hindered  aught ;  but  mindful  of  the  lore 
Our  fathers  gained  on  many  a  bloody  shore, 
We,  when  unto  the  street  we  made  our  way, 
Moved  as  in  fight  nor  broke  our  close  array, 
Though  no  man  harmed  us  of  the  troubled  crowd 
That  thronged  the  streets  with  shouts  and  curses  loud, 
But  rather  when  our  clashing  arms  they  heard 
Their  hubbub  lulled,  and  they  as  men  afeard 
Drew  back  before  us. 


62  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Well,  as  nigh  we  drew 

Unto  the  sea,  the  men  showed  sparse  and  few, 
Though  frightened  women  standing  in  the  street 
Before  their  doors  we  did  not  fail  to  meet, 
And  passed  by  folk  who  at  their  doors  laid  down 
Men  wounded  in  the  fight ;  so  through  the  town 
•  We  reached  the  unguarded  water-gate  at  last, 
And  there,  nigh  weeping,  saw  the  green  waves  cast 
Against  the  quays,  whereby  five  tall  ships  lay  : 
For  in  that  devil's  house,  right  many  a  day 
Had  passed  with  all  its  dull  obscenity 
We  counted  not,  and  while  we  longed  to  die, 
And  by  all  men  were  now  forgotten  quite 
Except  those  priests,  the  people  as  they  might 
Made  ships  like  ours  ;  in  whose  new  handiwork 
Few  mariners  and  fearful  now  did  lurk, 
And  these  soon  fled  before  us,  therefore  we 
Stayed  not  to  think,  but  running  hastily 
Down  the  lone  quay,  seized  on  the  nighest  ship, 
Nor  yet  till  we  had  let  the  hawser  slip 
Dared  we  be  glad,  and  then  indeed  once  more, 
Though  we  no  longer  hoped  for  our  fair  shore, 
Our  past  disgrace,  worse  than  the  very  hell, 
Though  hope  was  dead,  made  things  seem  more  than  well, 
For  if  we  died  that  night,  yet  were  we  free. 

Ah  !  with  what  joy  we  sniffed  the  fresh  salt  sea 
After  the  musky  odors  of  that  place  ; 
With  what  delight  each  felt  upon  his  face 
The  careless  wind,  our  master  and  our  slave, 
As  through  the  green  seas  fast  from  shore  we  drave, 
Scarce  witting  where  we  went. 

But  now  when  we 
Beheld  that  city,  far  across  the  sea, 
A  thing  gone  past,  nor  any  more  could  hear 
The  mingled  shouts  of  victory  and  of  fear, 
From  out  the  midst  thereof  shot  up  a  fire 
In  a  long,  wavering,  murky,  smoke-capped  spire 
That  still  with  every  minute  wider  grew, 
So  that  the  ending  of  the  place  we  knew 
Where  we  had  passed  such  days  of  misery, 
And  still  more  glad  turned  round  unto  the  sea. 

My  tale  grows  near  its  ending,  for  we  stood 
Southward  to  our  kind  folk  e'en  as  we  could, 
But  made  slow  way,  for  ever  heavily 
Our  ship  sailed,  and  she  often  needs  must  lie 


PROLOGUE.  — THE    WANDERERS.  63 

At  anchor  in  some  bay,  the  while  with  fear 
Ourselves,  we  followed  up  the  fearful  deer, 
Or  filled  our  water-vessels,  for  indeed, 
Of  meat  and  drink  were  we  in  bitter  need, 
As  well  might  be,  for  scarcely  could  we  choose 
What  ships  from  off  that  harbor  to  cast  loose. 

Midst  this  there  died  the  captain,  Nicholas, 
Whom,  though  he  brought  us  even  to  this  pass, 
I  loved  the  most  of  all  men  ;  even  now 
When  that  seems  long  past,  I  can  scarce  tell  how 
I  bear  to  live,  since  he  could  live  no  more. 
Certes  he  took  our  failure  very  sore, 
And  often  do  I  think  he  fain  had  died, 
But  yet  for  very  love  must  needs  abide 
A  little  while,  and  yet  awhile  again, 
As  though  to  share  the  utmost  of  our  pain, 
And  miss  the  ray  of  comfort  and  sweet  rest 
Wherewith  ye  end  our  long  disastrous  quest,  — 
A  drearier  place  than  ever  heretofore 
The  world  seemed,  as  from  that  far  nameless  shore 
\Ve  turned  and  left  him  'neath  the  trees  to  bide ; 
For  midst  our  rest  woni  out  at  last  he  died. 

And  such  seemed  like  to  hap  to  us  as  well, 
If  any  harder  thing  to  us  befell 
Than  was  our  common  life ;  and  still  we  talked 
How  our  old  friends  would  meet  men  foiled,  and  balked 
Of  all  the  things  that  were  to  make  them  glad  ; 
Ah,  sirs  !  no  sight  of  them  henceforth  we  had  ; 
A  wind  arose,  which  blowing  furiously 
Drove  us  out  helpless  to  the  open  sea  ; 
Eight  days  it  blew,  and  when  it  fell,  we  lay 
Leaky,  dismasted,  a  most  helpless  prey 
To  winds  and  waves,  and  with  but  little  food  ; 
Then  with  hard  toil  a  feeble  sail  and  rude 
We  rigged  up  somehow,  and  nigh  hopelessly, 
Expecting  death,  we  staggered  o'er  the  sea 
For  ten  days  more,  but  when  all  food  and  drink 
Were  gone  for  three  days,  and  we  needs  must  think 
That  in  mid-ocean  we  were  doomed  to  die, 
One  morn  again  did  land  before  us  lie  ; 
And  we  rejoiced,  as  much  at  least  as  he, 
Who  tossing  on  his  bed  deliriously. 
Tortured  with  pain,  hears  the  physician  say 
That  he  shall  have  one  quiet,  painless  day 
Before  he  dies.  —  What  more  ?  we  soon  did  stand 
In  this  your  peaceful  and  delicious  land 


1  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Amongst  the  simple  kindly  country  folk, 
But  when  I  heard  the  language  that  they  spoke, 
From  out  my  heart  a  joyous  cry  there  burst, 
So  sore  for  friendly  words  was  I  athirst, 
And  I  must  fall  a- weeping,  to  have  come 
To  such  a  place  that  seemed  a  blissful  home, 
After  the  tossing  from  rough  sea  to  sea  ; 
So  weak  at  last,  so  beaten  down  were  we. 

What  shall  I  say  in  these  kind  people's  praise 
Who  treated  us  like  brothers  for  ten  clays, 
Till  with  their  tending  we  grew  strong  again, 
And  then  withal  in  country  cart  and  wain 
Brought  us  unto  this  city  where  we  are  ; 
May  God  be  good  to  them  for  all  their  care. 

And  now,  sirs,  all  our  wanderings  have  ye  heard, 
And  all  our  stoiy  to  the  utmost  word  ; 
And  here  hath  ending  all  our  foolish  quest, 
Not  at  the  worst  if  hardly  at  the  best, 
Since  ye  are  good.  — -  Sirs,  we  are  old  and  gray 
Before  our  time ;  in  what  coin  shall  we  pay 
For  this  your  goodness  ?  take  it  not  amiss 
That  we,  poor  souls,  must  pay  you  back  for  this 
As  good  men  pay  back  God,  who,  raised  above 
The  heavens  and  earth,  yet  needeth  earthly  love. 


THE  ELDER  OF  THE  CITY. 

O  friends,  content  you  !  this  is  much  indeed, 
And  we  are  paid,  thus  garnering  for  our  need 
Your  blessings  only,  bringing  in  their  train 
God's  blessings  as  the  south  wind  brings  the  rain. 
And  for  the  rest,  no  little  thing  shall  be 
(Since  ye  through  all  yet  keep  your  memory) 
The  gentle  music  of  the  bygone  years, 
Long  past  to  us  with  all  their  hopes  and  fears. 
Think,  if  the  gods,  who  mayhap  love  us  well, 
Sent  to  our  gates  some  ancient  chronicle 
Of  that  sweet  unforgotten  land  long  left, 
Of  all  the  lands  wherefrom  we  now  are  reft,  — 
Think,  with  what  joyous  hearts,  what  reverence, 
What  songs,  what  sweet  flowers,  we  should  bring  it  thence, 
What  images  would  guard  it,  what  a  shrine 
Above  its  well-loved  black  and  white  should  shine  ! 
How  should  it  pay  our  labor  day  by  day 
To  look  upon  the  fair  place  where  it  lay ; 


PROLOGUE.— THE    WANDERERS.  65 

With  what  rejoicings  even  should  we  take 
Each  well-writ  copy  that  the  scribes  might  make, 
And  bear  them  forth  to  hear  the  people's  shout, 
E'en  as  good  rulers'  children  are  borne  out 
To  take  the  people's  blessing  on  their  birth, 
When  all  the  city  falls  to  joy  and  mirth. 

Such,  sirs,  are  ye,  our  living  chronicle, 
And  scarce  can  we  be  grieved  at  what  befell 
Your  lives  in  that  too  hopeless  quest  of  yours, 
Since  it  shall  bring  us  wealth  of  happy  hours 
Whiles  that  we  live,  and  to  our  sons,  delight, 
And  their  sons'  sons. 

But  now,  sirs,  let  us  go, 

That  we  your  new  abodes  with  us  may  show, 
And  tell  you  what  your  life  henceforth  may  be, 
But  poor,  alas  !  to  that  ye  hoped  to  see. 


66  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 


,  listener,  that  I  had  the  luck  to  stand, 
J-        Aivhile  ago,  within  a  flowery  land, 
Fair  beyond  words  ;  that  thence  I  brought  away 
Some  blossoms  that  before  my  footsteps  lay, 
Not  plucked  by  me,  not  over -fresh  or  bright  ; 
Yd,  since  they  minded  me  of  that  delight, 
Within  the  pages  of  this  book  I  laid 
Their  tender  petals,  there  in  peace  to  fade. 
Dry  are  they  now,  and  void  of  all  their  scent 
And  lovely  color,  yet  what  once  was  meant 
By  these  dull  stains,  some  men  may  yet  descry 
As  dead  upon  the  quivering  leaves  they  lie. 

Behold  tliem  here,  and  mock  me  if  you  will, 
But  yet  believe  no  scorn  of  men  can  kill 
My  love  of  that  fair  land  wherefrom  they  came, 
Where  midst  the  grass  their  petals  once  did  flame. 

Moreover,  since  that  land,  as  ye  should  know, 
Bears  not  alone  the  gems  for  summer's  shmv, 
Or  gold  and  pearls  for  fresh  green-coated  spring, 
Or  rich  adornment  for  the  flickering  wing 
Of  fleeting  autumn,  but  hath  little  fear 
For  the  white  conqueror  of  the  fruitful  year, 
So  in  these  pages  month  by  month  I  show 
Some  portion  of  the  flowers  that  erst  did  blow 
In  lovely  meadows  of  the  varying  land, 
Wherein  erewhile  I  had  the  hick  to  stand. 


MARCH. 


SLAYER  of  the  winter,  art  thou  here  again  ? 
O  welcome,  thou  that  bring'st  the  summer  nigh  ! 
The  bitter  wind  makes  not  thy  victory  vain, 
Nor  will  we  mock  thee  for  thy  faint  blue  sky. 
Welcome,  O  March  !  whose  kindly  days  and  dry 
Make  April  ready  for  the  throstle's  song, 
Thou  first  redresser  of  the  winter's  wrong  ! 

Yea,  welcome  March  !  and  though  I  die  ere  June, 
Yet  for  the  hope  of  life  I  give  thee  praise, 
Striving  to  swell  the  burden  of  the  tune 
That  even  now  I  hear  thy  brown  birds  raise, 
Unmindful  of  the  past  or  coming  clays  ; 
Who  sing  :  "  O  joy  !  a  new  year  is  begun  : 
What  happiness  to  look  upon  the  sun  !  " 

Ah,  what  begetteth  all  this  storm  of  bliss 
But  Death  himself,  who,  crying  solemnly, 
E'en  from  the  heart  of  sweet  Forgetfulness, 
Bids  us  "  Rejoice,  lest  pleasureless  ye  die. 
Within  a  little  time  must  ye  go  by. 
Stretch  forth  your  open  hands,  and  while  ye  live 
Take  all  the  gifts  that  Death  and  Life  may  give." 


BEHOLD  once  more  within  a  quiet  land 
The  remnant  of  that  once  aspiring  band, 
With  all  hopes  fallen  away,  but  such  as  light 
The  sons  of  men  to  that  unfailing  night, 
That  death  they  needs  must  look  on  face  to  face. 

Time  passed,  and  ever  fell  the  days  apace 
From  ofif  the  new-strung  chaplet  of  their  life  ; 
Yet  though  the  time  with  no  bright  deeds  was  rife, 
Though  no  fulfilled  desire  now  made  them  glad, 
They  were  not  quite  unhappy,  rest  they  had, 


5  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And  with  their  hope  their  fear  had  passed  away  j 
New  things  and  strange  they  saw  from  day  to  day  ; 
Honored  they  were,  and  had  no  lack  of  things 
For  which  men  crouch  before  the  feet  of  kings, 
And,  stripped  of  honor,  yet  may  fail  to  have. 

Therefore  their  letter  journey  to  the  grave 
Was  like  those  days  of  later  autumn-tide, 
When  he  who  in  some  town  may  chance  to  bide 
Opens  the  window  for  the  balmy  air, 
And  seeing  the  golden  hazy  sky  so  fair, 
And  from  some  city  garden  hearing  still 
The  wheeling  rooks  the  air  with  music  fill, 
Sweet  hopeful  music,  thinketh,  Is  this  spring, 
Surely  the  year  can  scarce  be  perishing  ? 
But  then  he  leaves  the  clamor  of  the  town, 
And  sees  the  withered  scanty  leaves  fall  down, 
The  half-ploughed  field,  the  flowerless  garden-plot, 
The  dark  full  stream  by  summer  long  forgot, 
The  tangled  hedges  where,  relaxed  and  dead, 
The  twining  plants  their  withered  berries  shed, 
And  feels  therewith  the  treachery  of  the  sun, 
And  knows  the  pleasant  time  is  wellnigh  done. 

In  such  St.  Luke's  short  summer  lived  these  men, 
Nearing  the  goal  of  threescore  years  and  ten  ; 
The  elders  of  the  town  their  comrades  were, 
And  they  to  them  were  waxen  now  as  dear 
As  ancient  men  to  ancient  men  can  be ; 
Grave  matters  of  belief  and  polity 
They  spoke  of  oft,  but  not  alone  of  these  ; 
For  in  their  times  of  idleness  and  ease 
They  told  of  poets'  vain  imaginings, 
And  memories  vague  of  half-forgotten  things, 
Not  true  or  false,  but  sweet  to  think  upon. 

For  nigh  the  time  when  first  that  land  they  won, 
When  new-born  March  made  fresh  the  hopeful  air, 
The  wanderers  sat  within  a  chamber  fair, 
Guests  of  that  city's  rulers,  when  the  day 
Far  from  the  sunny  noon  had  fallen  away  ; 
The  sky  grew  dark,  and  on  the  window-pane 
They  heard  the  beating  of  the  sudden  rain. 
Then,  all  being  satisfied  with  plenteous  feast, 
There  spoke  an  ancient  man,  the  land's  chief  priest, 
Who  said,  "  Dear  guests,  the  year  begins  to-day, 
And  fain  are  we,  before  it  pass  away, 
To  hear  some  tales  of  that  now  altered  world, 


MARCH.  69 

Wherefrom  our  fathers  in  old  time  were  hurled 
By  the  hard  hands  of  fate  and  destiny. 
Nor  would  ye  hear  perchance  unwillingly 
How  we  have  dealt  with  stories  of  the  land 
Wherein  the  tombs  of  our  forefathers  stand  : 
Wherefore  henceforth  two  solemn  feasts  shall  be 
In  every  month,  at  which  some  history 
Shall  crown  our  joyance  ;  and  this  day,  indeed, 
I  have  a  story  ready  for  our  need, 
If  ye  will  hear  it,  though  perchance  it  is 
That  many  things  therein  are  writ  amiss, 
This  part  forgotten,  that  part  grown  too  great, 
For  these  things,  too,  are  in  the  hands  of  fate." 

They  cried  aloud  for  joy  to  hear  him  speak, 
And  as  again  the  sinking  sun  did  break 
Through  the  dark  clouds  and  blazed  adown  the  hall, 
His  clear,  thin  voice  upon  their  ears  did  fall, 
Telling  a  tale  of  times  long  passed  away, 
When  men  might  cross  a  kingdom  in  a  day, 
And  kings  remembered  they  should  one  day  die, 
And  all  folk  dwelt  in  great  simplicity. 


ATALANTA'S    RACE    , 


ARGUMENT. 

ATALANTA,  daughter  of  King  Schoeneus,  not  willing  to  lose  her  virgin's 
estate,  made  it  a  law  to  all  suitors  that,  they  should  run  a  race  with  her 
in  the  public  place,  and  if  they  failed  to  overcome  her  should  die  unre- 
venged  ;  and  thus  many  brave  men  perished.  At  last  came  Milanion, 
the  son  of  Amphidamas,  who,  outrunning  her  with  the  help  of  Venus, 
gained  the  virgin  and  wedded  her. 

1 ''HROUGH  thick  Arcadian  Woods  a  hunter  went, 
Following  the  beasts  up,  on  a  fresh  spring  day  ; 
But  since  his  horn-tipped  bow,  but  seldom  bent, 
Now  at  the  noon-tide  naught  had  happed  to  slay, 
Within  a  vale  he  called  his  hounds  away, 
Hearkening  the  echoes  of  his  lone  voice  cling 
About  the  cliffs  and  through  the  beech-trees  ring. 

But  when  they  ended,  still  awhile  he  stood, 
And  but  the  sweet  familiar  thrush  could  hear, 
And  all  the  day-long  noises  of  the  wood, 
And  o'er  the  dry  leaves  of  the  vanished  year 
His  hounds'  feet  pattering  as  they  drew  anear, 
And  heavy  breathing  from  their  heads  low  hung, 
To  see  the  mighty  cornel  bow  unstrung. 

Then  smiling  did  he  turn  to  leave  the  place, 
But  with  his  first  step  some  new  fleeting  thought 
A  shadow  cast  across  his  sunburnt  face  ; 
I  think  the  golden  net  that  April  brought 
From  some  warm  world  his  wavering  soul  had  caught ; 
For,  sunk  in  vague  sweet  longing,  did  he  go 
Betwixt  the  trees  with  doubtful  steps  and  slow. 

Yet  howsoever  slow  he  went,  at  last 
The  trees  grew  sparser,  and  the  wood  was  done  ; 
Whereon  one  farewell,  backward  look  he  cast, 
Then,  turning  round  to  see  what  place  was  won, 
With  shaded  eyes  looked  underneath  the  sun, 


ATALANTA'S  RACE.  71 

And  o'er  green  meads  and  new-turned  furrows  brown 
Beheld  the  gleaming  of  King  Schoeneus1  town. 

So  thitherward  he  turned,  and  on  each  side 
The  folk  were  busy  on  the  teeming  land, 
And  man  and  maid  from  the  brown  furrows  cried, 
Or  midst  the  newly  blossomed  vines  did  stand, 
And  as  the  rustic  weapon  pressed  the  hand 
Thought  of  the  nodding  of  the  well-filled  ear, 
Or  how  the  knife  the  heavy  bunch  should  shear. 

Merry  it  was  :  about  him  sung  the  birds, 
The  spring  flowers  bloomed  along  the  firm  dry  road, 
The  sleek-skinned  mothers  of  the  sharp-horned  herds 
Now  for  the  barefoot  milking-maidens  lowed  ; 
While  from  the  freshness  of  his  blue  abode, 
Glad  his  death-bearing  arrows  to  forget, 
The  broad  sun  blazed,  nor  scattered  plagues  as  yet. 

Through  such  fair  things  unto  the  gates  he  came, 
And  found  them  open,  as  though  peace  were  there ; 
Wherethrough,  unquestioned  of  his  race  or  name, 
He  entered,  and  along  the  streets  'gan  fare, 
Which  at  the  first  of  folk  were  wellnigh  bare  ; 
But  pressing  on,  and  going  more  hastily, 
Men  hurrying  too  he  'gan  at  last  to  see. 

Following  the  last  of  these,  he  still  pressed  on, 
Until  an  open  space  he  came  unto, 
Where  wreaths  of  fame  had  oft  been  lost  and  won, 
For  feats  of  strength  folk  there  were  wont  to  do. 
And  now  our  hunter  looked  for  something  new, 
Because  the  whole  wide  space  was  bare,  and  stilled 
The  high  seats  were,  with  eager  people  filled. 

There  with  the  others  to  a  seat  he  gat, 
Whence  he  beheld  a  broidered  canopy, 
'Neath  which  in  fair  array  King  Schoeneus  sat 
Upon  his  throne  with  councillors  thereby  ; 
And  underneath  his  well-wrought  seat  and  high, 
He  saw  a  golden  image  of  the  sun, 
A  silver  image  of  the  Fleet-foot  One. 

A  brazen  altar  stood  beneath  their  feet 
Whereon  a  thin  flame  flickered  in  the  wind  ; 
Nigh  this  a  herald  clad  in  raiment  meet 


72  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Made  ready  even  now  his  horn  to  wind, 
By  whom  a  huge  man  held  a  sword,  intwined 
With  yellow  flowers  ;  these  stood  a  little  space 
From  off  the  altar,  nigh  the  starting-place. 

And  there  two  runners  did  the  sign  abide 
Foot  set  to  foot,  —  a  young  man  slim  and  fair, 
Crisp-haired,  well-knit,  with  firm  limbs  often  tried 
In  places  where  no  man  his  strength  may  spare  ; 
Dainty  his  thin  coat  was,  and  on  his  hair 
A  golden  circlet  of  renown  he  wore, 
And  in  his  hand  an  olive  garland  bore. 

But  on  this  day  with  whom  shall  he  contend  ? 
A  maid  stood  by  him  like  Diana  clad 
When  in  the  woods  she  lists  her  bow  to  bend, 
Too  fair  for  one  to  look  on  and  be  glad, 
Who  scarcely  yet  has  thirty  summers  had, 
If  he  must  still  behold  her  from  afar ; 
Too  fair  to  let  the  world  live  free  from  war. 

She  seemed  all  earthly  matters  to  forget ; 
Of  all  tormenting  lines  her  face  was  clear, 
Her  wide  gray  eyes  upon  the  goal  were  set 
Calm  and  unmoved  as  though  no  soul  were  near, 
But  her  foe  trembled  as  a  man  in  fear, 
Nor  from  her  loveliness  one  moment  turned 
His  anxious  face  with  fierce  desire  that  burned. 

Now  through  the  hush  there  broke  the  trumpet's  clang 
Just  as  the  setting  sun  made  eventide. 
Then  from  light  feet  a  spurt  of  dust  there  sprang, 
And  swiftly  were  they  running  side  by  side  ; 
But  silent  did  the  thronging  folk  abide 
Until  the  turning-post  was  reached  at  last, 
And  round  -about  it  still  abreast  they  passed. 

But  when  the  people  saw  how  close  they  ran, 
When  half-way  to  the  starting-point  they  were, 
A  cry  of  joy  broke  forth,  whereat  the  man 
Headed  the  white-foot  runner,  and  drew  near 
Unto  the  very  end  of  all  his  fear  ; 
And  scarce  his  straining  feet  the  ground  could  feel, 
And  bliss  unhoped  for  o'er  his  heart  'gan  steal. 

But  midst  the  loud  victorious  shouts  he  heard 


ATALANTA'S  RACE.  73 

Her  footsteps  drawing  nearer,  and  the  sound 
Of  fluttering  raiment,  and  thereat  afeard 
His  flushed  and  eager  face  he  turned  around, 
And  even  then  he  felt  her  past  him  bound 
Fleet  as  the  wind,  but  scarcely  saw  her  there 
Till  on  the  goal  she  laid  her  fingers  fair. 

There  stood  she  breathing  like  a  little  child 
Amid  some  warlike  clamor  laid  asleep, 
For  no  victorious  joy  her  red  lips  smiled, 
Her  cheek  its  wonted  freshness  did  but  keep  ; 
No  glance  lit  up  her  clear  gray  eyes  and  deep, 
Though  some  divine  thought  softened  all  her  face 
As  once  more  rang  the  trumpet  through  the  place. 

But  her  late  foe  stopped  short  amidst  his  course, 
One  moment  gazed  upon  her  piteously, 
Then  with  a  groan  his  lingering  feet  did  force 
To  leave  the  spot  whence  he  her  eyes  could  see  ; 
And,  changed  like  one  who  knows  his  time  must  be 
But  short  and  bitter,  without  any  word 
He  knelt  before  the  bearer  of  the  sword  ; 

Then  high  rose  up  the  gleaming  deadly  blade, 
Barecl  of  its  flowers,  and  through  the  crowded  place 
Was  silence  now,  and  midst  of  it  the  maid 
Went  by  the  poor  wretch  at  a  gentle  pace, 
And  he  to  hers  upturned  his  sad  white  face ; 
Nor  did  his  eyes  behold  another  sight 
Ere  on  his  soul  there  fell  eternal  night. 


SO  was  the  pageant  ended,  and  all  folk 
Talking  of  this  and  that  familiar  thing 
In  little  groups  from  that  sad  concourse  broke, 
For  now  the  shrill  bats  were  upon  the  wing, 
And  soon  dark  night  would  slay  the  evening, 
And  in  dark  gardens  sang  the  nightingale 
Her  little-heeded,  oft-repeated  tale. 

And  with  the  last  of  all  the  hunter  went, 
Who,  wondering  at  the  strange  sight  he  had  seen, 
Prayed  an  old  man  to  tell  him  what  it  meant, 
Both  why  the  vanquished  man  so  slain  had  been, 


74  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And  if  the  maiden  were  an  earthly  queen, 
Or  rather  what  much  more  she  seemed  to  be, 
No  sharer  in  the  world's  mortality. 

"  Stranger,"  said  he,  "  I  pray  she  soon  may  die 
Whose  lovely  youth  has  slain  so  many  an  one  ! 
King  Schoeneus'  daughter  is  she  verily, 
Who  when  her  eyes  first  looked  upon  the  sun 
Was  fain  to  end  her  life  but  new  begun, 
For  he  had  vowed  to  leave  but  men  alone 
Sprung  from  his  loins  when  he  from  earth  was  gone. 

"  Therefore  he  bade  one  leave  her  in  the  wood, 
And  let  wild  things  deal  with  her  as  they  might, 
But  this  being  done,  some  cruel  god  thought  good 
To  save  her  beauty  in  the  world's  despite  : 
Folk  say  that  her,  so  delicate  and  white 
As  now  she  is,  a  rough,  root-grabbing  bear 
Amidst  her  shapeless  cubs  at  first  did  rear. 

"In  course  of  time  the  woodfolk  slew  her  nurse, 
And  to  their  rude  abode  the  youngling  brought, 
And  reared  her  up  to  be  a  kingdom's  curse, 
Who  grown  a  woman,  of  no  kingdom  thought, 
But  armed  and  swift,  'mid  beasts  destruction  wrought, 
Nor  spared  two  shaggy  centaur  kings  to  slay, 
To  whom  her  body  seemed  an  easy  prey. 

"  So  to  this  city,  led  by  fate,  she  came 
Whom  known  by  signs,  whereof  I  cannot  tell, 
King  Schoeneus  for  his  child  at  last  did  claim, 
Nor  otherwhere  since  that  day  doth  she  dwell, 
Sending  too  many  a  noble  soul  to  hell.  — 
What !  thine  eyes  glisten  !  what  then,  thinkest  thou 
Her  shining  head  unto  the  yoke  to  bow  ? 

"  Listen,  my  son,  and  love  some  other  maid, 
For  she  the  saffron  gown  will  never  wear, 
And  on  no  flower-strewn  couch  shall  she  be  laid, 
Nor  shall  her  voice  make  glad  a  lover's  ear  : 
Yet  if  of  Death  thou  hast  not  any  fear, 
Yea,  rather,  if  thou  lovest  him  utterly, 
Thou  still  may'st  woo  her  ere  thou  comest  to  die, 

"  Like  him  that  on  this  day  thou  sawest  lie  dead  ; 
For,  fearing  as  I  deem  the  sea-born  one, 


ATALANTA'S  RACE.  75 

The  maid  has  vowed  e'en  such  a  man  to  wed 
As  in  the  course  her  swift  feet  can  outrun, 
But  whoso  fails  herein,  his  days  are  done  : 
He  came  the  nighest  that  was  slain  to-day, 
Although  with  him  I  deem  she  did  but  play. 

"  Behold,  such  mercy  Atalanta  gives 
To  those  that  long  to  win  her  loveliness  ; 
Be  wise  !  be  sure  that  many  a  maid  there  lives 
Gentler  than  she,  of  beauty  little  less, 
Whose  swimming  eyes  thy  loving  words  shall  bless, 
When  in  some  garden,  knee  set  close  to  knee, 
Thou  sing'st  the  song  that  love  may  teach  to  thee." 

So  to  the  hunter  spake  that  ancient  man, 
And  left  him  for  his  own  home  presently  : 
But  he  turned  round,  and  through  the  moonlight  wan 
Reached  the  thick  wood,  and  there  'twixt  tree  and  tree 
Distraught  he  passed  the  long  night  feverishly, 
'Twixt  sleep  and  waking,  and  at  dawn  arose 
To  wage  hot  war  against  his  speechless  foes. 

There  to  the  hart's  flank  seemed  his  shaft  to  grow, 
As  panting  down  the  broad  green  glades  he  flew, 
There  by  his  horn  the  Dryads  well  might  know 
His  thrust  against  the  bear's  heart  had  been  true, 
And  there  Adonis'  bane  his  javelin  slew, 
But  still  in  vain  through  rough  and  smooth  he  went, 
For  none  the  more  his  restlessness  was  spent. 

So  wandering,  he  to  Argive  cities  came, 
And  in  the  lists  with  valiant  men  he  stood, 
And  by  great  deeds  he  won  him  praise  and  fame, 
And  heaps  of  wealth  for  little-valued  blood  ; 
But  none  of  all  these  things,  or  life,  seemed  good 
Unto  his  heart,  where  still  unsatisfied 
A  ravenous  longing  warred  with  fear  and  pride. 

Therefore  it  happed  when. but  a  month  had  gone 
Since  he  had  left  King  Schoeneus'  city  old, 
In  hunting-gear  again,  again  alone 
The  forest-bordered  meads  did  he  behold, 
Where  still  mid  thoughts  of  August's  quivering  gold 
Folk  hoed  the  wheat,  and  clipped  the  vine  in  trust 
Of  faint  October's  purple-foaming  must 


76  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And  once  again  he  passed  the  peaceful  gate, 
While  to  his  beating  heart  his  lips  did  lie, 
That,  owning  not  victorious  love  and  fate, 
Said,  half  aloud,  ' '  And  here  too  must  I  try, 
To  win  of  alien  men  the  master)', 
And  gather  for  my  head  fresh  meed  of  fame, 
And  cast  new  glory  on  my  father's  name." 

In  spite  of  that,  how  beat  his  heart,  when  first 
Folk  said  to  him,  "  And  art  thou  come  to  see 
That  which  still  makes  our  city's  name  accurst 
Among  all  mothers  for  its  cruelty  ? 
Then  know  indeed  that  fate  is  good  to  thee 
Because  to-morrow  a  new  luckless  one 
Against  the  whitefoot  maid  is  pledged  to  run." 

So  on  the  morrow  with  no  curious  eyes 
As  once  he  did,  that  piteous  sight  he  saw, 
Nor  did  that  wonder  in  his  heart  arise 
As  toward  the  goal  the  conquering  maid  'gan  draw, 
Nor  did  he  gaze  upon  her  eyes  with  awe, 
Too  full  the  pain  of  longing  filled  his  heart 
For  fear  or  wonder  there  to  have  a  part. 

But  O,  how  long  the  night  was  ere  it  went ! 
How  long  it  was  before  the  dawn  begun 
Showed  to  the  wakening  birds  the  sun's  intent 
That  not  in  darkness  should  the  world  be  done  ! 
And  then,  and  then,  how  long  before  the  sun 
Bade  silently  the  toilers  of  the  earth 
Get  forth  to  fruitless  cares  or  empty 'mirth  ! 

And  long  it  seemed  that  in  the  market-place 
He  stood  and  saw  the  chaffering  folk  go  by, 
Ere  from  the  ivory  throne  King  Schoeneus'  face 
Looked  down  upon  the  murmur  royally, 
But  then  came  trembling  that  the  time  was  nigh 
When  he  midst  pitying  looks  his  love  must  claim, 
And  jeering  voices  must  salute  his  name. 

But  as  the  throng  he  pierced  to  gain  the  throne, 
His  alien  face  distraught  and  anxious  told 
What  hopeless  errand  he  was  bound  upon, 
And,  each  to  each,  folk  whispered  to  behold 
His  godlike  limbs ;  nay,  and  one  woman  old 


ATALANTA'S  RACE.  77 

As  he  went  by  must  pluck  him  by  the  sleeve 
And  pray  him  yet  that  wretched  love  to  leave. 

For  sidling  up  she  said,  "  Canst  thou  live  twice, 
Fair  son  ?  canst  thou  have  joyful  youth  again, 
That  thus  thou  goest  to  the  sacrifice, 
Thyself  the  victim  ?  nay  then,  all  in  vain 
Thy  mother  bore  her  longing  and  her  pain, 
And  one  more  maiden  on  the  earth  must  dwell 
Hopeless  of  joy,  nor  fearing  death  and  hell. 

"  O  fool,  thou  knowest  not  the  compact  then 
That  with  the  three-formed  goddess  she  has  made 
To  keep  her  from  the  loving  lips  of  men, 
And  in  no  saffron  gown  to  be  arrayed, 
And  therewithal  with  glory  to  be  paid, 
And  love  of  her  the  moonlit  river  sees 
White  'gainst  the  shadow  of  the  formless  trees. 

"  Come  back,  and  I  myself  will  pray  for  thee 
Unto  the  sea-born  framer  of  delights, 
To  give  thee  her  who  on  the  earth  may  be 
The  fairest  stirrer-up  to  death  and  fights, 
To  quench  with  hopeful  days  and  joyous  nights 
The  flame  that  doth  thy  youthful  heart  consume : 
Come  back,  nor  give  thy  beauty  to  the  tomb." 

How  should  he  listen  to  her  earnest  speech  ? 
Words,  such  as  he  not  once  or  twice  had  said 
Unto  himself,  whose  meaning  scarce  could  reach 
The  firm  abode  of  that  sad  hardihead  — 
He  turned  about,  and  through  the  marketstead 
Swiftly  he  passed,  until  before  the  throne 
In  the  cleared  space  he  stood  at  last  alone. 

Then  said  the  King,  "  Stranger,  what  dost  thou  here? 
Have  any  of  my  folk  done  ill  to  thee  ? 
Or  art  thou  of  the  forest  men  in  fear  ? 
Or  art  thou  of  the  sad  fraternity 
Who  still  will  strive  my  daughter's  mates  to  be, 
Staking  their  lives  to  win  to  earthly  bliss 
The  lonely  maid,  the  friend  of  Artemis  ?  " 

"  O  King,"  he  said,  "  thou  sayest  the  word  indeed ; 
Nor  will  I  quit  the  strife  till  I  have  won 
My  sweet  delight,  or  death  to  end  my  need. 


78  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And  know  that  I  am  called  Milanion, 
Of  King  Amphidamas  the  well-loved  son  : 
So  fear  not  that  to  thy  old  name,  O  King, 
Much  loss  or  shame  my  victory  will  bring. " 

"Nay,  Prince,"  said  Schceneus,  "welcome  to  this  land 
Thou  wert  indeed,  if  thou  wert  here  to  try  , 
Thy  strength  'gainst  some  one  mighty  of  his  hand ; 
Nor  would  we  grudge  thee  well-won  mastery. 
But  now,  why  wilt  thou  come  -to  me  to  die, 
And  at  my  door  lay  down  thy  luckless  head, 
Swelling  the  band  of  the  unhappy  dead, 

"  Whose  curses  even  now  my  heart  doth  fear? 
Lo,  I  am  old,  and  know  what  life  can  be, 
And  what  a  bitter  thing  is  death  anear. 
O  Son  !  be  wise,  and  hearken  unto  me, 
And  if  no  other  can  be  dear  to  thee, 
At  least  as  now,  yet  is  the  world  full  wide, 
And  bliss  in  seeming  hopeless  hearts  may  hide  : 

"  But  if  thou  losest  life,  then  all  is  lost." 
"Nay,  King,"  Milanion  said,  "thy  words  are  vain. 
Doubt  not  that  I  have  counted  well  the  cost 
But  say,  on  what  day  wilt  thou  that  I  gain 
Fulfilled  delight,  or  death  to  end  my  pain  ? 
Right  glad  were  I  if  it  could  be  to-day, 
And  all  my  doubts  at  rest  forever  lay." 

"  Nay,"  said  King  Schosneus,  "  thus  it  shall  not  be, 
But  rather  shall  thou  let  a  month  go  by, 
And  weary  with  thy  prayers  for  victory 
What  god  thou  know'st  the  kindest  and  most  nigh. 
So  doing,  still  perchance  thou  shalt  not  die  : 
And  with  my  good-will  wouldst  thou  have  the  maid, 
For  of  the  equal  gods  I  grow  afraid. 

"  And  until  then,  O  Prince,  be  thou  my  guest, 
And  all  these  troublous  things  awhile  forget." 
"  Nay,"  said  he,  "  couldst  thou  give  my  soul  good  rest, 
And  on  mine  head  a  sleepy  garland  set, 
Then  had  I  'scaped  the  meshes  of  the  net, 
Nor  shouldst  thou  hear  from  me  another  word  ; 
But  now,  make  sharp  thy  fearful  heading  sword. 

"Yet  will  I  do  what  son  of  man  may  do, 
And  promise  all  the  gods  may  most  desire, 


ATALANTA'S  RACE.  79 

That  to  myself  I  may  at  least  be  true ; 

And  on  that  day  my  heart  and  limbs  so  tire, 

With  utmost  strain  and  measureless  desire, 

That,  at  the  worst,  I  may  but  fall  asleep 

When  in  the  sunlight  round  that  sword  shall  sweep." 

He  went  with  that,  nor  anywhere  would  bide, 
But  unto  Argos  restlessly  did  wend  ; 
And  there,  as  one  who  lays  all  hope  aside, 
Because  the  leech  has  said  his  life  must  end, 
Silent  farewell  he  bade  to  foe  and  friend, 
And  took  his  way  unto  the  restless  sea, 
For  there  he  deemed  his  rest  and  help  might  be. 


UPON  the  shore  of  Argolis  there  stands 
A  temple  to  the  goddess  that  he  sought, 
That,  turned  unto  the  lion-bearing  lands, 
Fenced  from  the  east,  of  cold  winds  hath  no  thought, 
Though  to  no  homestead  there  the  sheaves  are  brought, 
No  groaning  press  torments  the  close-clipped  murk, 
Lonely  the  fane  stands,  far  from  all  men's  work. 

Pass  through  a  close,  set  thick  with  myrtle-trees, 
Through  the  brass  doors  that  guard  the  holy  place, 
And  entering,  hear  the  washing  of  the  seas 
That  twice  a  day  rise  high  above  the  base, 
And  with  the  southwest  urging  them,  embrace 
The  marble  feet  of  her  that  standeth  there, 
That  shrink  not,  naked  though  they  be  and  fair. 

Small  is  the  fane  through  which  the  sea-wind  sings 
About  Queen  Venus'  well- wrought  image  white, 
But  hung  around  are  many  precious  things, 
The  gifts  of  those  who,  longing  for  delight, 
Have  hung  them  there  within  the  goddess'  sight, 
And  in  return  have  taken  at  her  hands 
The  living  treasures  of  the  Grecian  lands. 

And  thither  now  has  come  Milanion, 
And  showed  unto  the  priests'  wide-open  eyes 
Gifts  fairer  than  all  those  that  there  have  shown, 
Silk  cloths,  inwrought  with  Indian  fantasies, 


8o  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And  bowls  inscribed  with  sayings  of  the  wise 
Above  the  deeds  of  foolish  living  things, 
And  mirrors  fit  to  be  the  gifts  of  kings. 

And  now  before  the  Sea-bom  One  he  stands, 
By  the  sweet  veiling  smoke  made  dim  and  soft, 
And  while  the  incense  trickles  from  his  hands, 
And  while  the  odorous  smoke-wreaths  hang  aloft, 
Thus  doth  he  pray  to  her  :  "  O  Thou,  who  oft 
Hast  holpen  man  and  maid  in  their  distress, 
Despise  me  not  for  this  niy  wretchedness ! 

"  O  goddess,  among  us  who  dwell  below, 
Kings  and  great  men,  great  for  a  little  while, 
Have  pity  on  the  lowly  heads  that  bow, 
Nor  hate  the  hearts  that  love  them  without  guile ; 
Wilt  thou  be  worse  than  these,  and  is  thy  smile 
A  vain  device  of  him  who  set  thee  here, 
An  empty  dream  of  some  artificer  ? 

"  O  great  one,  some  men  love,  and  are  ashamed  ; 
Some  men  are  weary  of  the  bonds  of  love  ; 
Yea,  and  by  some  men  lightly  art  thou  blamed, 
That  from  thy  toils  their  lives  they  cannot  move, 
And  mid  the  ranks  of  men  their  manhood  prove. 
Alas  !  O  goddess,  if  thou  slayest  me 
What  new  immortal  can  I  serve  but  thee  ? 

"  Think  then,  will  it  bring  honor  to  thy  head 
If  folk  say,  '  Everything  aside  he  cast 
And  to  all  fame  and  honor  was  he  dead, 
And  to  his  one  hope  now  is  dead  at  last. 
Since  all  unholpen  he  is  gone  and  past : 
Ah,  the  gods  love  not  man,  for  certainly, 
He  to  his  helper  did  not  cease  to  cry.' 

' '  Nay,  but  thou  wilt  help  ;  they  who  died  before 
Not  single-hearted  as  I  deem  came  here, 
Therefore  unthanked  they  laid  their  gifts  before 
Thy  stainless  feet,  still  shivering  with  their  fear, 
Lest  in  their  eyes  their  true  thought  might  appear, 
Who  sought  to  be  the  lords  of  that  fair  town, 
Dreaded  of  men  and  winners  of  renown. 

"  O  Queen,  thou  knowest  I  pray  not  for  this  : 
O,  set  us  down  together  in  some  place 


ATALANTA'S  RACE.  Si 

Where  not  a  voice  can  break  our  heaven  of  bliss, 
Where  naught  but  rocks  and  I  can  see  her  face, 
Softening  beneath  the  marvel  of  thy  grace, 
Where  not  a  foot  our  vanished  steps  can  track,  — 
The  golden  age,  the  golden  age  come  back  ! 

"  O  fairest,  hear  me  now,  who  do  thy  will, 
Plead  for  thy  rebel  that  she  be  not  slain, 
But  live  and  love  and  be  thy  servant  still : 
Ah,  give  her  joy  and  take  away  my  pain, 
And  thus  two  long-enduring  servants  gain. 
An  easy  thing  this  is  to  do  for  me, 
What  need  of  my  vain  words  to  weary  thee ! 

"  But  none  the  less  this  place  will  I  not  leave 
Until  I  needs  must  go  my  death  to  meet, 
Or  at  thy  hands  some  happy  sign  receive 
That  in  great  joy  we  twain  may  one  day  greet 
Thy  presence  here  and  kiss  thy  silver  feet, 
Such  as  we  deem  thee,  fair  beyond  all  words, 
Victorious  o'er  our  servants  and  our  lords. " 

Then  from  the  altar  back  a  space  he  drew, 
But  from  the  Queen  turned  not  his  face  away, 
But  'gainst  a  pillar  leaned,  until  the  blue 
That  arched  the  sky,  at  ending  of  the  day, 
Was  turned  to  ruddy  gold  and  changing  gray, 
And  clear,  but  low,  the  nigh-ebbed  windless  sea 
In  the  still  evening  murmured  ceaselessly. 

And  there  he  stood  when  all  the  sun  was  down, 
Nor  had  he  moved,  when  the  dim  golden  light, 
Like  the  far  lustre  of  a  godlike  town, 
Had  left  the  world  to  seeming  hopeless  night, 
Nor  would  he  move  the  more  when  wan  moonlight 
Streamed  through  the  pillars  for  a  little  while, 
And  lighted  up  the  white  Queen's  changeless  smile. 

Naught  noted  he  the  shallow  flowing  sea 
As  step  by  step  it  set  the  wrack  a-swim, 
The  yellow  torchlight  nothing  noted  he 
Wherein  with  fluttering  gown  and  half-bared  limb 
The  temple  damsels  sung  their  midnight  hymn, 
And  naught  the  doubled  stillness  of  the  fane 
When  they  were  gone  and  all  was  hushed  again. 
6 


82  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

But  when  the  waves  had  touched  the  marble  base, 
And  steps  the  fish  swim  over  twice  a  day, 
The  dawn  beheld  him  sunken  in  his  place 
Upon  the  floor ;  and  sleeping  there  he  lay, 
Not  heeding  aught  the  little  jets  of  spray 
The  roughened  sea  brought  nigh,  across  him  cast, 
For  as  one  dead  all  thought  from  him  had  passed. 

Yet  long  before  the  sun  had  showed  his  head, 
Long  ere  the  varied  hangings  on  the  wall 
Had  gained  once  more  their  blue  and  green  and  red, 
He  rose  as  one  some  well-known  sign  doth  call 
When  war  upon  the  city's  gates  doth  fall, 
And  scarce  like  one  fresh  risen  out  of  sleep, 
He  'gan  again  his  broken  watch  to  keep. 

Then  he  turned  round  ;  not  for  the  sea-gull's  cry 
That  wheeled  above  the  temple  in  his  flight, 
Not  for  the  fresh  south-wind  that  lovingly 
Breathed  on  the  new-born  day  and  dying  night, 
But  some  strange  hope  'twixt  fear  and  great  delight 
Drew  round  his  face,  now  flushed,  now  pale  and  wan, 
And  still  constrained  his  eyes  the  sea  to  scan. 

Now  a  faint  light  lit  up  the  southern  sky, 
Not  sun  or  moon,  for  all  the  world  was  gray, 
But  this  a  bright  cloud  seemed,  that  drew  anigh, 
Lighting  the  dull  waves  that  beneath  it  lay 
As  toward  the  temple  still  it  took  its  way, 
And  still  grew  greater,  till  Milanion 
Saw  naught  for  dazzling  light  that  round  him  shone. 

But  as  he  staggered  with  his  arms  outspread, 
Delicious  unnamed  odors  breathed  around, 
For  languid  happiness  he  bowed  his  head, 
And  with  wet  eyes  sank  down  upon  the  ground, 
Nor  wished  for  aught,  nor  any  dream  he  found 
To  give  him  reason  for  that  happiness, 
Or  make  him  ask  more  knowledge  of  his  bliss. 

At  last  his  eyes  were  cleared,  and  he  could  see 
Through  happy  tears  the  goddess  face  to  face 
With  that  faint  image  of  Divinity, 
Whose  well-wrought  smile  and  dainty  changeless  grace 
Until  that  morn  so  gladdened  all  the  place  ; 


ATALANTA'S  RACE.  83 

Then  he  unwitting  cried  aloud  her  name, 
And  covered  up  his  eyes  for  fear  and  shame. 

But  through  the  stillness  he  her  voice  could  hear 
Piercing  his  heart  with  joy  scarce  bearable, 
That  said,  "  Milanion,  wherefore  dost  thou  fear  ? 
I  am  not  hard  to  those  who  love  me  well ; 
List  to  what  I  a  second  time  will  tell, 
And  thou  mayest  hear  perchance,  and  live  to  save 
The  cruel  maiden  from  a  loveless  grave. 

"See,  by  my  feet  three  golden  apples  lie  — 
Such  fruit  among  the  heavy  roses  falls, 
Such  fruit  my  watchful  damsels  carefully 
Store  up  within  the  best  loved  of  my  walls, 
Ancient  Damascus,  where  the  lover  calls 
Above  my  unseen  head,  and  faint  and  light 
The  rose-leaves  flutter  round  me  in  the  night 

"  And  note,  that  these  are  not  alone  most  fair 
With  heavenly  gold,  but  longing  strange  they  bring 
Unto  the  hearts  of  men,  who  will  not  care, 
Beholding  these,  for  any  once-loved  thing 
Till  round  the  shining  sides  their  fingers  cling. 
And  thou  shalt  see  thy  well-girt  swiftfoot  maid 
By  sight  of  these  amid  her  glory  stayed. 

"  For  bearing  these  within  a  scrip  with  thee, 
When  first  she  heads  thee  from  the  starting-place 
Cast  down  the  first  one  for  her  eyes  to  see, 
And  when  she  turns  aside  make  on  apace, 
And  if  again  she  heads  thee  in  the  race 
Spare  not  the  other  two  to  cast' aside 
If  she  not  long  enough  behind  will  bide. 

"Farewell,  and  when  has  come  the  happy  time 
That  she  Diana's  raiment  must  unbind 
And  all  the  world  seems  blessed  with  Saturn's  clime, 
And  thou  with  eager  arms  about  her  twined 
Beholdest  first  her  gray  eyes  growing  kind, 
Surely,  O  trembler,  thou  shalt  scarcely  then 
Forget  the  Helper  of  unhappy  men. " 

Milanion  raised  his  head  at  this  last  word, 
For  now  so  soft  and  kind  she  seemed  to  be 
No  longer  of  her  Godhead  was  he  feared  ; 


4'  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Too  late  he  looked,  for  nothing  could  he  see 
But  the  white  image  glimmering  doubtfully 
In  the  departing  twilight  cold  and  gray, 
And  those  three  apples  on  the  steps  that  lay. 

These  then  he  caught  up  quivering  with  delight, 
Yet  fearful  lest  it  all  might  be  a  dream, 
And  though  aweary  with  the  watchful  night, 
And  sleepless  nights  of  longing,  still  did  deem 
He  could  not  sleep  ;  but  yet  the  first  sunbeam 
That  smote  the  fane  across  the  heaving  deep 
Shone  on  him  laid  in  calm  untroubled  sleep. 

But  little  ere  the  noontide  did  he  rise, 
And  why  he  felt  so  happy  scarce  could  tell 
Until  the  gleaming  apples  met  his  eyes. 
Then,  leaving  the  fair  place  where  this  befell, 
Oft  he  looked  back  as  one  who  loved  it  well, 
Then  homeward  to  the  haunts  of  men  'gan  wend 
To  bring  all  things  unto  a  happy  end. 


NOW  has  the  lingering  month  at  last  gone  by, 
Again  are  all  folk  round  the  running-place, 
Nor  other  seems  the  dismal  pageantry 
Than  heretofore,  but  that  another  face 
Looks  o'er  the  smooth  course  ready  for  the  race, 
For  now,  beheld  of  all,  Milanion 
Stands  on  the  spot  he  twice  has  looked  upon. 

But  yet  —  what  change  is  this  that  holds  the  maid  ? 
Does  she  indeed  see  in  his  glittering  eye 
More  than  disdain  of  the  sharp  shearing  blade, 
Some  happy  hope  of  help  and  victory  ? 
The  others  seemed  to  say,  "We  come  to  die, 
Look  down  upon  us  for  a  little  while, 
That,  dead,  we  may  bethink  us  of  thy  smile." 

But  he  —  what  look  of  mastery  was  this 
He  cast  on  her  ?  why  were  his  lips  so  red  ? 
Why  was  his  face  so  flushed  with  happiness  ? 
So  looks  not  one  who  deems  himself  but  dead, 
E'en  if  to  death  he  bows  a  willing  head  ; 


ATALANTA'S  RACE.  85 

So  rather  looks  a  god  well  pleased  to  find 
Some  earthly  damsel  fashioned  to  his  mind. 

Why  must  she  drop  her  lids  before  his  gaze, 
And  even  as  she  casts  adown  her  eyes 
Redden  to  note  his  eager  glance  of  praise, 
And  wish  that  she  were  clad  in  other  guise  ? 
Why  must  the  memory  to  her  heart  arise 
Of  things  unnoticed  when  they  first  were  heard, 
Some  lover's  song,  some  answering  maiden's  word? 

What  makes  these  longings,  vague,  without  a  name, 
And  this  vain  pity  never  felt  before, 
This  sudden  languor,  this  contempt  of  fame, 
This  tender  sorrow  for  the  time  past  o'er, 
These  doubts  that  grow  each  minute  more  and  more  ? 
Why  does  she  tremble  as  the  time  grows  near, 
And  weak  defeat  and  woful  victory  fear  ? 

But  while  she  seemed  to  hear  her  beating  heart, 
Above  their  heads  the  trumpet  blast  rang  out, 
And  forth  they  sprang  ;  and  she  must  play  her  part ; 
Then  flew  her  white  feet,  knowing  not  a  doubt, 
Though,  slackening  once,  she  turned  her  head  about, 
But  then  she  cried  aloud  and  faster  fled 
Than  e'er  before,  and  all  men  deemed  him  dead. 

But  with  no  sound  he  raised  aloft  his  hand, 
And  thence  what  seemed  a  ray  of  light  there  flew 
And  past  the  maid  rolled  on  along  the  sand ; 
Then  trembling  she  her  feet  together  drew, 
And  in  her  heart  a  strong  desire  there  grew 
To  have  the  toy ;  some  god  she  thought  had  given 
That  gift  to  her,  to  make  of  earth  a  heaven. 

Then  from  the  course  with  eager  steps  she  ran, 
And  in  her  odorous  bosom  laid  the  gold. 
But  when  she  turned  again,  the  great-limbed  man 
Now  well  ahead  she  failed  not  to  behold, 
And,  mindful  of  her  glory  waxing  cold, 
Sprang  up  and  followed  him  in  hot  pursuit, 
Though  with  one  hand  she  touched  the  golden  fruit 

Note,  too,  the  bow  that  she  was  wont  to  bear 
She  laid  aside  to  grasp  the  glittering  prize, 
And  o'er  her  shoulder  from  the  quiver  fair 


86  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Three  arrows  fell  and  lay  before  her  eyes 
Unnoticed,  as  amidst  the  people's  cries 
She  sprang  to  head  the  strong  Milanion, 
Who  now  the  turning-post  had  wellnigh  won. 

But  as  he  set  his  mighty  hand  on  it 
White  fingers  underneath  his  own  were  laid, 
And  white  limbs  from  his  dazzled  eyes  did  flit ; 
Then  he  the  second  fruit  cast  by  the  maid, 
But  she  ran  on  awhile,  then  as  afraid 
Wavered  and  stopped,  and  turned  and  made  no  stay, 
Until  the  globe  with  its  bright  fellow  lay. 

Then,  as  a  troubled  glance  she  cast  around, 
Now  far  ahead  the  Argive  could  she  see, 
And  in  her  garment's  hem  one  hand  she  wound 
To  keep  the  double  prize,  and  strenuously 
Sped  o'er  the  course,  and  little  doubt  had  she 
To  win  the  day,  though  now  but  scanty  space 
Was  left  betwixt  him  and  the  winning-place. 

Short  was  the  way  unto  such  winged  feet, 
Quickly  she  gained  upon  him,  till  at  last 
He  turned  about  her  eager  eyes  to  meet 
And  from  his  hand  the  third  fair  apple  cast 
She  wavered  not,  but  turned  and  ran  so  fast 
After  the  prize  that  should  her  bliss  fulfil, 
That  in  her  hand  it  lay  ere  it  was  stilL 

Nor  did  she  rest,  but  turned  about  to  win, 
Once  more,  an  unblest  woful  victory  — 
And  yet  — and  yet — why  does  her  breath  begin 
To  fail  her,  and  her  feet  drag  heavily  ? 
Why  fails  she  now  to  see  if  far  or  nigh 
The  goal  is  ?  why  do  her  gray  eyes  grow  dim  ? 
Why  do  these  tremors  run  through  every  limb  ? 

She  spreads  her  arms  abroad  some  stay  to  find, 
Else  must  she  fall,  indeed,  and  findeth  this, 
A  strong  man's  arms  about  her  body  twined. 
Nor  may  she  shudder  now  to  feel  his  kiss, 
So  wrapped  she  is  in  new  unbroken  bliss  : 
Made  happy  that  the  foe  the  prize  hath  won, 
She  weeps  glad  tears  for  all  her  glory  done. 


ATALANTA'S  RACE.  87 


O  HATTER  the  trumpet,  hew  adown  the  posts  ! 
^^    Upon  the  brazen  altar  break  the  sword, 
And  scatter  incense  to  appease  the  ghosts 
Of  those  who  died  here  by  their  own  award. 
Bring  forth  the  image  of  the  mighty  Lord, 
And  her  who  unseen  o'er  the  runners  hung, 
And  did  a  deed  forever  to  be  sung. 

Here  are  the  gathered  folk,  make  no  delay, 
Open  King  Schoaneus'  well-filled  treasury, 
Bring  out  the  gifts  long  hid  from  light  of  day, 
The  golden  bowls  overwrought  with  imagery, 
Gold  chains,  and  unguents  brought  from  over  sea, 
The  saffron  gown  the  old  Phoenician  brought, 
Within  the  temple  of  the  Goddess  wrought 

O  ye,  O  damsels,  who  shall  never  see 
Her,  that  Love's  servant  bringeth  now  to  you, 
Returning  from  another  victory, 
In  some  cool  bower  do  all  that  now  is  due  ! 
Since  she  in  token  of  her  service  new 
Shall  give  to  Venus  offerings  rich  enow, 
Her  maiden  zone,  her  arrows,  and  her  bow. 


88  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 


SO  when  his  last  word's  echo  died  away, 
The  growing  wind  at  end  of  that  wild  day 
Alone  they  heard,  for  silence  bound  them  all ; 
Yea,  on  their  hearts  a  weight  had  seemed  to  fall, 
As  unto  the  scarce-hoped  felicity 
The  tale  drew  round,  —  the  end  of  life  so  nigh, 
The  aim  so  little,  and  the  joy  so  vain,  — 
For  as  a  child's  unmeasured  joy  brings  pain 
Unto  a  grown  man  holding  grief  at  bay, 
So  the  old  fervent  story  of  that  day 
Brought  pain  half-sweet,  to  these  :  till  now  the  fire 
Upon  the  hearth  sent  up  a  flickering  spire 
Of  ruddy  flame,  as  fell  the  burned -through  logs, 
And,  waked -by  sudden  silence,  gray  old  dogs, 
The  friends  of  this  or  that  man,  rose  and  fawned 
On  hands  they  knew  ;  withal  once  more  there  dawned 
The  light  of  common  day  on  those  old  hearts, 
And  all  were  ready  now  to  play  their  parts, 
And  take  what  feeble  joy  might  yet  remain 
In  place  of  all  they  once  had  hoped  to  gain. 


NOW  on  the  second  day  that  these  did  meet 
March  was  a-dying  through  soft  days  and  sweet, 
Too  hopeful  for  the  wild  days  yet  to  be  ; 
But  in  the  hall  that  ancient  company, 
Not  lacking  younger  folk  that  day  at  least, 
Softened  by  spring  were  gathered  at  the  feast, 
And  as  the  time  drew  on,  throughout  the  hall 
A  horn  was  sounded,  giving  note  to  all 
That  they  at  last  the  looked-for  tale  should  hear. 

Then  spake  a  Wanderer,  "  O  kind  hosts  and  dear, 
Hearken  a  little  unto  such  a  tale 
As  folk  with  us  will  tell  in  every  vale 
About  the  yule-tide  fire,  when  the  snow, 
Deep  in  the  passes,  letteth  men  to  go 


MARCH. 

From  place  to  place  :  now  there  few  great  folk  be, 
Although  we  upland  men  have  memory 
Of  ills  kings  did  us  ;  yet  as  now  indeed 
Few  have  much  wealth,  few  are  in  utter  need. 
Like  the  wise  ants,  a  kingless,  happy  folk 
We  long  have  been,  not  galled  by  any  yoke, 
But  the  white  leaguer  of  the  winter-tide 
Whereby  all  men  at  home  are  bound  to  bide. 
Alas,  my  folly  !  how  I  talk  of  it, 
As  though  from  this  place  where  to-day  we  sit 
The  way  thereto  was  short.     Ah,  would  to  God 
Upon  the  snow-freed  herbage  now  I  trod ! 
But  pardon,  sirs ;  the  time  goes  swiftly  by, 
Hearken  a  tale  of  conquering  destiny. " 


THE  MAN  BORN  TO   BE  KING. 


ARGUMENT. 

IT  was  foretold  to  a  great  king,  that  he  who  should  reign  after  him  should 
be  low-born  and  poor  ;  which  thing  came  to  pass  in  the  end,  lor  all  that 
the  king  could  do. 

A  KING  there  was  in  days  of  old 
Who  ruled  wide  lands,  nor  lacked  for  gold, 
Nor  honor,  nor  much  longed-for  praise, 
And  his  days  were  called  happy  days, 
So  peaceable  his  kingdoms  were, 
While  others  wrapt  in  war  and  fear 
Fell  ever  unto  worse  and  worse. 

Therefore  his  city  was  the  nurse 
Of  all  that  men  then  had  of  lore, 
And  none  were  driven  from  his  door 
That  seemed  well  skilled  in  anything ; 
So  of  the  sages  was  he  king  ; 
And  from  this  learned  man  and  that, 
Little  by  little,  lore  he  gat, 
And  many  a  lordless,  troubled  land 
Fell  scarce  loath  to  his  dreaded  hand. 

Midst  this  it  chanced  that,  on  a  day, 
Clad  in  his  glittering  gold  array, 
He  held  a  royal  festival ; 
And  nigh  him  in  his  glorious  hall 
Bejield  his  sages  most  and  least, 
Sitting  much  honored  at  the  feast 
But  mid  the  faces  so  well  known, 
Of  men  he  well  might  call  his  own, 
He  saw  a  little  wizened  man 
With  face  grown  rather  gray  than  wan 
From  lapse  of  years,  beardless  was  he, 
And  bald  as  is  the  winter  tree ; 
But  his  two  deep-set,  glittering  eyes 
Gleamed  at  the  sight  of  mysteries 
None  knew  but  he  ;  few  words  he  said, 
And  unto  those  small  heed  was  paid ; 


THE  MAN  BORN  TO  BE  KING.  91 

But  the  King,  young,  yet  old  in  guile, 
Failed  not  to  note  a  flickering  smile 
Upon  his  face,  as  now  and  then 
He  turned  him  from  the  learned  men 
Toward  the  King's  seat,  so  thought  to  know 
What  new  thing  he  might  have  to  show ; 
And  presently,  the  meat  being  done, 
He  bade  them  bring  him  to  his  throne, 
And  when  before  him  he  was  come, 
He  said,  "  Be  welcome  to  my  home  ; 
What  is  thine  art,  canst  thou  in  rhyme 
Tell  stories  of  the  ancient  time  ? 
Or  dost  thou  chronicle  old  wars  ? 
Or  know'st  thou  of  the  change  of  stars  ? 
Or  seek'st  thou  the  transmuting  stone  ? 
Or  canst  thou  make  the  shattered  bone 
Grow  whole,  and  dying  men  live  on 
Till  years  like  thine  at  last  are  won  ? 
Or  what  thing  bring'st  thou  to  me  here, 
Where  naught  but  men  of  lore  are  dear 
To  me  and  mine  ? " 

"O  King,"  said  he, 
"  But  few  things  know  I  certainly, 
Though  I  have  toiled  for  many  a  day 
Along  the  hard  and  doubtful  way 
That  bringeth  wise  men  to  the  grave  : 
And  now  for  all  the  years  I  gave, 
To  know  all  things  that  man  can  learn, 
A  few  months'  learned  life  I  earn, 
Nor  feel  much  liker  to  a  god 
Than  when  beside  my  sheep  I  trod 
Upon  the  thymy,  wind-swept  down. 
Yet  am  I  come  unto  thy  town 
To  tell  thee  somewhat  that  I  learned 
As  on  the  stars  I  gazed,  and  yearned 
To  cast  this  weary  body  off, 
With  all  its  chains  of  mock  and  scoff 
And  creeping  death  —  for  as  I  read 
The  sure  decrees  with  joy  and  dread, 
Somewhat  I  saw  writ  down  of  thee, 
And  who  shall  have  the  sovereignty 
When  thou  art  gone." 

"  Nay,"  said  the  King, 
"  Speak  quick  and  tell  me  of  the  thing." 

"  Sire,    said  the  sage,  "thine  ancient  line 
Thou  holdest  as  a  thing  divine, 


92  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

So  long  and  undisturbed  it  is, 
But  now  shall  there  be  end  to  this, 
For  surely  in  my  glittering  text 
I  read  that  he  who  shall  sit  next, 
On  this  thine  ancient  throne  and  high, 
Shall  be  no  better  born  than  I 
Whose  grandsire  none  remembereth, 
Nor  where  my  father  first  drew  breath." 

"  Yea,"  said  the  King,  "and  this  may  be  ; 
Yet,  O  sage,  ere  I  credit  thee, 
Some  token  certes  must  thou  show, 
Or  tell  me  what  I  think  to  know, 
Alone  among  all  folk  alive  ; 
Then  surely  great  gifts  will  I  give 
To  thee,  and  make  thee  head  of  all 
Who  watch  the  planets  rise  and  fall." 

"  Bid  these  stand  backward  from  thy  throne, 
The  sage  said,  "  then  to  thee  alone 
Long-hidden  matters  will  I  tell ; 
And  then  if  thou  believest,  well  — 
And  if  thou  dost  not  —  well  also  ; 
No  gift  I  ask,  but  leave  to  go, 
For  strange  to  me  is  this  thy  state, 
And  for  thyself,  thou  well  may'st  hate  • 
My  crabbed  age  and  misery." 

"  Well,"  said  the  King,  "  let  this  thing  be ; 
And  ye,  my  masters,  stand  aback  ! 
For  of  the  fresh  air  have  I  lack, 
And  in  my  pleasance  would  I  walk 
To  hearken  this  grave  elder's  talk 
And  gain  new  lore. " 

Therewith  he  rose 
And  led  the  way  unto  a  close, 
Shaded  with  gray-leaved  olive-trees  ; 
And  when  they  were  amidst  of  these 
He  turned  about  and  said,  "  Speak,  friend, 
And  of  thy  folly  make  an  end, 
And  take  this  golden  chain  therefore." 

"  Rightly  thou  namest  my  weak  lore," 
The  sage  said,  "  therefore  to  the  end 
Be  wise,  and  what  the  fates  may  send 
Take  thou,  nor  struggle  in  the  net 
Wherein  thine  helpless  feet  are  set ! 
—  Hearken  !  a  year  is  wellnigh  done 
Since,  at  the  hottest  of  the  sun, 
Stood  Antony  beneath  this  tree, 


THE  MAN  BORN  TO  BE  KING.  93 

And  took  a  jewelled  cup  of  thee, 
And  drank  swift  death  in  guise  of  wine  ; 
Since  he,  most  trusted  of  all  thine, 
At  last  too  full  of  knowledge  grew, 
And  chiefly,  he  of  all  men  knew 
How  the  Earl  Marshal  Hugh  had  died, 
Since  he  had  drawn  him  on  to  ride 
Into  a  bushment  of  his  foes, 
To  meet  death  from  unnumbered  blows." 

"  Thou  knowest  that  by  me  he  died," 
The  King  said.      "  How  if  now  I  cried, 
'  Help  !  the  magician  slayeth  me '  ? 
Swiftly  should  twenty  sword-blades  be 
Clashing  within  thy  ribs,  and  thou 
Nearer  to  death  than  even  now." 

"Not  thus,  O  King,  I  fear  to  die," 
The  sage  said  ;  "  Death  shall  pass  me  by 
Many  a  year  yet,  because,  perchance, 
I  fear  not  aught  his  clattering  dance, 
And  have  enough  of  weary  days. 
—  But  thou  —  farewell,  and  win  the  praise 
Of  sages,  by  thy  hearkening 
With  heed  to  this  most  certain  thing. 
Fear  not  because  this  thing  I  know, 
For  to  my  gray  tower  back  I  go 
High  raised  above  the  heathy  hills 
Where  the  great  erne  the  swift  hare  kills, 
Or  stoops  upon  the  new-yeaned  lamb  ; 
There  almost  as  a  god  I  am 
Unto  few  folk,  who  hear  thy  name 
Indeed,  but  know  naught  of  thy  fame, 
Nay,  scarce  if  thou  be  man  or  beast" 
So  saying,  back  unto  the  feast 
He  turned,  and  went  adown  the  hall, 
Not  heeding  any  gibe  or  call  ; 
And  left  the  palace  and  the  town 
With  face  turned  toward  his  windy  down. 
Back  to  the  hall,  too,  the  King  went, 
With  eyes  upon  the  pavement  bent 
In  pensive  thought,  delighting  not 
In  riches  and  his  kingly  lot ; 
But  thinking  how  his  clays  began, 
And  of  the  lonely  souls  of  man. 

But  time  passed,  and  midst  this  and  that, 
The  wise  man's  message  he  forgat ; 


94  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And  as  a  king  he  lived  his  life, 

And  took  to  him  a  noble  wife 

Of  the  kings'  daughters,  rich  and  fair. 

And  they  being  wed  for  nigh  a  year, 

And  she  now  growing  great  with  child, 

It  happed  unto  the  forest  wild 

This  king  with  many  folk  must  ride 

At  ending  of  the.  summer-tide  ; 

There  boar  and  hart  they  brought  to  bay, 

And  had  right  noble  prize  that  day  ; 

But  when  the  noon  was  now  long  past, 

And  the  thick  woods  grew  overcast, 

They  roused  the  mightiest  hart  of  all. 

Then  loudly  'gan  the  King  to  call 

Unto  his  huntsmen,  not  to  leave 

That  mighty  beast  for  dusk  nor  eve 

Till  they  had  won  him  ;  with  which  word 

His  horn  he  blew,  and  forth  he  spurred, 

Taking  no  thought  of  most  or  least, 

But  only  of  that  royal  beast. 

And  over  rough  and  smooth  he  rode, 

Nor  yet  for  anything  abode, 

Till  dark  night  swallowing  up  the  day 

With  blindness  his  swift  course  must  stay. 

Nor  was  there  with  him  any  one, 

So  far  his  fair  steed  had  outrun 

The  best  of  all  his  hunting-folk. 

So,  glancing  at  the  stars  that  broke 
'Twixt  the  thick  branches  here  and  there, 
Backward  he  turned,  and  peered  with  care 
Into  the  darkness,  but  saw  naught, 
Nor  heard  his  folk,  and  therewith  thought 
His  bed  must  be  the  brake-leaves  brown. 
Then  in  a  while  he  lighted  down, 
And  felt  about  a  little  space, 
If  he  might  find  a  softer  place  ; 
But  as  he  groped  from  tree  to  tree 
Some  glimmering  light  he  seemed  to  see 
'Twixt  the  dark  stems,  and  thither  turned, 
If  yet  perchance  some  wood-fire  burned 
Within  a  peasant's  hut,  where  he 
Might  find,  amidst  their  misery, 
Rough  food,  or  shelter  at  the  least. 

So,  leading  on  his  wearied  beast, 
Blindly  he  crept  from  tree  to  tree, 
Till  slowly  grew  that  light  to  be 


THE  MAN  BORN  TO  BE  KING.  95 

The  thing  he  looked  for,  and  he  found 

A  hut  on  a  cleared  space  of  ground, 

From  whose  half-opened  door  there  streamed 

The  light  that  erst  far  off  had  gleamed. 

Then  of  that  shelter  was  he  fain, 

But  just  as  he  made  shift  to  gain 

The  open  space  in  front  of  it, 

A  shadow  o'er  the  grass  did  flit, 

And  on  the  wretched  threshold  stood 

A  big  man,  with  a  bar  of  wood 

In  his  right  hand,  who  seemed  as  though 

He  got  him  ready  for  a  blow ; 

But  ere  he  spoke  the  King  cried,  "Friend, 

May  God  good  hap  upon  thee  send, 

If  thou  wilt  give  me  rest  this  night, 

And  food  according  to  thy  might." 

"  Nay,"  said  the  carle,  "  my  wife  lieth 
In  labor,  and  is  nigh  her  death  : 
Nor  canst  thou  enter  here  at  all, 
But  near  by  is  my  asses'  stall, 
Who  on  this  night  bide  in  the  town ; 
There,  if  thou  wilt,  may'st  thou  lie  down, 
And  sleep  until  the  dawn  of  day, 
And  I  will  bring  thee  what  I  may 
Of  food  and  drink. " 

Then  said  the  King, 
"  Thanked  be  thou  ;  neither  for  nothing 
Shalt  thou  this  good  deed  do  to  me. " 

"  Nay/'  said  the  carle,  "let  these  things  be, 
Surely  I  think  before  the  morn 
To  be  too  weary  and  forlorn 
For  gold  much  heart  in  me  to  put. " 
With  that  he  turned,  and  from  the  hut 
Brought  out  a  lantern,  and  rye-bread, 
And  wine,  and  showed  the  King  a  shed, 
Strewed  with  a  litter  of  dry  brake  : 
\Vithal  he  muttered,  for  his  sake, 
Unto.  Our  Lady  some  rude  prayer, 
And  turned  about  and  left  him  there. 

So  when  the  rye-bread,  nowise  fine, 
The  King  had  munched,  and  with  green  wine 
Had  quenched  his  thirst,  his  horse  he  tied 
Unto  a  post,  and  there  beside 
He  fell  asleep  upon  the  brake. 

But  in  an  hour  did  he  awake, 


96  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Astonied  with  an  unnamed  fear, 

For  words  were  ringing  in  his  ear 

Like  the  last  echo  of  a  scream, 

"  Take!  take!"  but  of  the  vanished  dream 

No  image  was  there  left  to  him. 

Then,  trembling  sore  in  every  limb, 

Did  he  arise,  and  drew  his  sword, 

And  passed  forth  on  the  forest  sward, 

And  cautiously  about  he  crept ; 

But  he  heard  naught  at  all,  except 

Some  groaning  of  the  woodman's  wife, 

And  forest  sounds  well  known,  but  rife 

With  terror  to  the  lonely  soul. 

•    Then  he  lay  down  again,  to  roll 

His  limbs  within  his  huntsman's  cloak  ; 

And  slept  again,  and  once  more  woke 

To  tremble  with  that  unknown  fear, 

And  other  echoing  words  to  hear,  — 

"  Give  up  !  give  tip  /"  nor  anything 

Showed  more  why  these  strange  words  should  ring 

About  him.     Then  he  sat  upright, 

Bewildered,  gazing  through  the  night, 

Until  his  weary  eyes,  grown  dim, 

Showed  not  the  starlit  tree-trunks  slim 

Against  the  black  wood,  gray  and  plain  ; 

And  into  sleep  he  sank  again, 

And  woke  not  soon  ;  but  sleeping  dreamed 

That  he  awoke,  nor  other  seemed 

The  place  he  woke  in  but  that  shed, 

And  there  beside  his  bracken  bed 

He  seemed  to  see  the  ancient  sage 

Shrivelled  yet  more  with  untold  age, 

Who  bending  down  his  head  to  him 

Said,  with  a  mocking  smile  and  grim,  — 

"  Take,  or  give  up  ;  what  matters  it? 

This  child  new-born  shall  surely  sit 

Upon  thy  seat  when  thou  art  gone, 

And  dwelling  'twixt  straight  walls  of  stone."    • 

Again  the  King  woke  at  that  word, 
And  sat  up,  panting  and  afeard, 
And  staring  out  into  the  night, 
Where  yet  the  woods  thought  not  of  light ; 
And  fain  he  was  to  cast  off  sleep, 
Such  visions  from  his  eyes  to  keep. 
Heavy  his  head  grew  none  the  less, 
'Twixt  'wildering  thoughts  and  weariness, 


THE  MAN  BORN  TO  BE  KING.  97 

And  soon  he  fell  asleep  once  more, 
Nor  dreamed,  nor  woke  again,  before 
The  sun  shone  through  the  forest-trees  ; 
And,  shivering  in  the  morning  breeze, 
He  blinked  with  just-awakened  eyes, 
And,  pondering  on  those  mysteries, 
Unto  the  woodman's  hut  he  went. 

Him  he  found  kneeling  down,  and  bent 
In  moody  grief  above  a  bed, 
Whereon  his  wife  lay,  stark  and  dead, 
Whose  soul  near  morn  had  passed  away ; 
And  'twixt  the  dead  and  living  lay 
A  new-born  man-child,  fair  and  great 
So  in  the  door  the  King  did  wait 
To  watch  the  man,  who  had  no  heed 
Of  this  or  that,  so  sore  did  bleed 
The  new-made  wound  within  his  heart. 
But  as  the  King  gazed,  for  his  part 
He  did  but  see  his  threatened  foe, 
And  ever  hard  his  heart  did  grow 
With  deadly  hate  and  wilfulness  : 
And  sight  of  that  poor  man's  distress 
Made  it  the  harder,  as  of  naught 
But  that  unbroken  line  he  thought 
Of  which  he  was  the  last :  withal 
His  scornful  troubled  eyes  did  fall 
Upon  that  nest  of  poverty, 
Where  naught  of  joy  he  seemed  to  see. 

On  straw  the  poor  dead  woman  lay  ; 
The  door  alone  let  in  the  day, 
Showing  the  trodden  earthen  floor, 
A  board  on  trestles  weak  and  poor, 
Three  stumps  of  tree  for  stool  or  chair, 
A  half-glazed  pipkin,  nothing  fair, 
A  bowl  of  porridge  by  the  wife, 
Untouched  by  lips  that  lacked  for  life, 
A  platter  and  a  bowl  of  wood  ; 
And  in  the  further  corner  stood 
A  bow  cut  from  the  wych-elm  tree, 
A  holly  club,  and  arrows  three 
Ill-pointed,  heavy,  spliced  with  thread. 

Ah  !  soothly,  well  remembered 
Was  that  unblissful  wretched  home, 
Those  four  bare  walls,  in  days  to  come  ; 
.         7 


98  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And  often  in  the  coming  years 

He  called  to  mind  the  pattering  tears 

That,  on  the  rent  old  sackcloth  cast 

About  the  body,  fell  full  fast, 

'Twixt  half-meant  prayers  and  curses  wild, 

And  that  weak  wailing  of  the  child, 

His  threatened  dreaded  enemy, 

The  mighty  king  that  was  to  be. 

But  as  he  gazed  unsoftened  there, 
With  hate  begot  of  scorn  and  care, 
Loudly  he  heard  a  great  horn  blow, 
And  his  own  hunting-call  did  know, 
And  soon  began  the  shouts  to  hear 
Of  his  own  people  drawing  near. 
Then  lifting  up  his  horn,  he  blew 
A  long  shrill  point,  but  as  he  threw 
His  head  aback,  beheld  his  folk, 
Who  from  the  close-set  thicket  broke 
And  o'er  the  cleared  space  swiftly  passed, 
With  shouts  that  he  was  found  at  last. 

Then  turned  the  carle  his  doleful  face, 
And,  slowly  rising  in  his  place, 
Drew  thwart  his  eyes  his  fingers  strong, 
And  on  that  gay-dressed  glittering  throng 
Gazed  stupidly,  as  still  he  heard 
The  name  of  King  ;  but  said  no  word. 

But  his  guest  spoke,  "  Sirs,  well  be  ye ! 
This  luckless  woodman,  whom  ye  see, 
Gave  me  good  harbor  through  the  night, 
And  such  poor  victual  as  he  might ; 
Therefore  shall  he  have  more  than  gold 
For  his  reward  ;  since  dead  and  cold 
His  helpmate  lies  who  last  night  died. 
See  now  the  youngling  by  her  side  ; 
Him  will  I  take  and  rear  him  so 
That  he  shall  no  more  lie  alow 
In  straw,  or  from  the  beech-tree  dine, 
But  rather  use  white  linen  fine 
And  silver  plate  ;  and  with  the  sword 
Shall  learn  to  serve  some  king  or  lord. 
How  say'st  thou,  good  man  ?  " 

"Sire,"  he  said, 

Weeping,  but  shamefaced,  —  "since  here  dead 
She  lies,  that  erst  kept  house  for  me, 
E'en  as  thou  wiliest  let  it  be  ; 
Though  I  had  hoped  to  have  a  son 


THE  MAN  BORN  TO  BE  KING.  99 

To  help  me  get  the  day's  work  done. 

And  now,  indeed,  forth  must  he  go 

If  unto  manhood  he  should  grow, 

And  lonely  I  must  wander  forth, 

To  whom  east,  west,  and  south,  and  north 

Are  all  alike  :  forgive  it  me 

If  little  thanks  I  give  to  thee 

Who  scarce  can  thank  great  God  in  heaven 

For  what  is  left  of  what  was  given." 

Small  heed  unto  him  the  King  gave, 
But  trembling  in  his  haste  to  have 
The  body  of  his  enemy, 
Said  to  an  old  squire,  "  Bring  to  me 
The  babe,  and  give  the  good  man  this 
Wherewith  to  gain  a  little  bliss, 
In  place  of  all  his  troubles  gone, 
Nor  need  he  now  be  long  alone. " 
The  carle's  rough  face,  at  clink  of  gold, 
Lit  up,  though  still  did  he  behold 
The  wasted  body  lying  there  ; 
But  stooping,  a  rough  box,  foursquare, 
Made  of  old  wood  and  lined  with  hay, 
Wherein  the  helpless  infant  lay, 
He  raised,  and  gave  it  to  the  squire 
Who  on  the  floor  cast  down  his  hire, 
Nor  sooth  dared  murmur  aught  the  while, 
But  turning  smiled  a  grim  hard  smile 
To  see  the  carle  his  pieces  count 
Still  weeping  :  so  did  all  men  mount, 
And  turning  round  into  the  wood 
Forgat  him  and  his  drearihood, 
And  soon  were  far  off  from  the  hut 

Then  coming  out,  the  door  he  shut 
Behind  him,  and  adown  a  glade, 
Towards  a  rude  hermitage,  he  made 
To  fetch  the  priest  unto  his  need, 
To  bury  her  and  say  her  bede.  — 
So  when  all  things  that  he  might  do 
Were  done  aright,  heavy  with  woe, 
He  left  the  woodland  hut  behind 
To  take  such  chance  as  he  might  find 
In  other  lands,  forgetting  all 
That  in  that  forest  did  befall. 

But  through  the  wild  wood  rode  the  King, 


i  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Moody  and  thinking  on  the  thing, 

Nor  free  from  that  unreasoning  fear  ; 

Till  now,  when  they  had  drawn  anear 

The  open  country,  and  could  see 

The  road  run  on  from  close  to  lea, 

And  lastly  by  a  woc>den  bridge 

A  long  way  from  that  heathy  ridge 

Cross  over  a  deep  lowland  stream  — 

Then  in  his  eyes  there  came  a  gleam, 

And  his  hand  fell  upon  his  sword, 

And  turning  round  to  squire  and  lord 

He  said,  "  Ride,  sirs,  the  way  is  clear, 

Nor  of  my  people  have  I  fear, 

Nor  do  my  foes  range  over-wide  ; 

And  for  myself  fain  would  I  ride 

Right  slowly  homewards  through  the  fields 

Noting  what  this  and  that  one  yields  ; 

While  by  my  squire  who  bears  the  child 

Lightly  my  way  shall  be  beguiled. 

For  some  nurse  now  he  needs  must  have 

This  tender  life  of  his  to  save ; 

And  doubtless  by  the  stream  there  is 

Some  house  where  he  may  dwell  in  bliss, 

Till  he  grow  old  enough  to  learn 

How  gold  and  glory  he  may  earn  ; 

And  grow,  perchance,  to  be  a  lord." 

With  downcast  eyes  he  spoke  that  word  ; 
But  forth  they  galloped  speedily, 
And  he  drew  rein  and  stood  to  see 
Their  green  coats  lessening  as  they  went. 
This  man  unto  the  other  bent, 
Until  mid  dust  and  haze  at  last 
Into  a  wavering  mass  they  passed  ; 
Then  'twixt  the  hedge-rows  vanished  quite, 
Just  told  of  by  the  dust-cloud  white 
Rolled  upwards  'twixt  the  elm-trunks  slim. 

Then  turned  the  King  about  to  him 
Who  held  the  child,  noting  again 
The  thing  wherein  he  first  had  lain, 
And  on  one  side  of  it  could  see 
A  lion  painted  hastily 
In  red  upon  a  ground  of  white, 
As  though  of  old  it  had  been  dight 
For  some  lord's  rough-wrought  palisade  j 
But  naked  mid  the  hay  was  laid 
The  child,  and  had  no  mark  or  sign. 


THE  MAN  BORN  TO  BE  KING.  101 

Then  said  the  King,  ' '  My  ancient  line 
Thou  and  thy  sires  through  good  and  ill 
Have  served,  and  unto  thee  my  will 
Is  law  enough  from  day  to  day  ; 
Ride  nigh  me,  hearkening  what  I  say." 

He  shook  his  rein,  and  side  by  side 
Down  through  the  meadows  did  they  ride, 
And,  opening  all  his  heart,  the  King 
Told  to  the  old  man  everything 
Both  of  the  sage,  and  of  his  dream  ; 
Withal,  drawn  nigh  unto  the  stream, 
He  said,  "  Yet  this  shall  never  be, 
For  surely  as  thou  lovest  me, 
Adown  this  water  shall  he  float 
With  this  rough  box  for  ark  and  boat 
Then  if  mine  old  line  he  must  spill 
There  let  God  save  him  if  he  will,. 
While  I  in  no  case  shed  his  blood." 

"  Yea,"  said  the  squire,  "  thy  words  are  good, 
For  the  whole  sin  shall  lie  on  me, 
Who  greater  things  would  do  for  thee 
If  need  there  were  ;  yet  note,  I  pray, 
It  may  be  he  will  'scape  this  day 
And  live ;  and  what  wouldst  thou  do  then 
If  thou  shouldst  meet  him  among  men  ? 
I  counsel  thee  to  let  him  go 
Since  sure  to  naught  thy  will  shall  grow." 

"  Yea,  yea,"  the  King  said,  "let  all  be 
That  may  be,  if  I  once  but  see 
This  ark  whirl  in  the  eddies  swift 
Or  tangled  in  the  autumn  drift 
And  wrong  side  up  "  :  but  with  that  word 
Their  horse-hoofs  on  the  plank  he  heard, 
And  swift  across  the  bridge  he  rode, 
And  nigh  the  end  of  it  abode, 
Then  turned  to  watch  the  old  squire  stop, 
And  leaning  o'er  the  bridge-rail  drop 
The  luckless  child  ;  he  heard  withal 
A  muttered  word  and  splashing  fall 
And  from  the  wakened  child  a  cry, 
And  saw  the  cradle  hurrying  by, 
Whirled  round  and  sinking,  but  as  yet 
Holding  the  child,  nor  overset. 

Now  somewhat,  soothly  at  the  sight 
Did  the  King  doubt  if  he  outright 
Had  rid  him  of  his  feeble  foe, 


102  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

But  frowning  did  he  turn  to  go 
Unto  his  home,  nor  knew  indeed 
How  better  he  might  help  his  need ; 
And  as  unto  his  house  he  rode 
Full  little  care  for  all  he  showed, 
Still  bidding  Samuel  the  squire 
Unto  his  bridle-hand  ride  nigher, 
To  whom  he  talked  of  careless  things, 
As  unto  such  will  talk  great  kings. 

But  when  unto  his  palace  gate 
He  came  at  last,  thereby  did  wait 
The  chamberlain  with  eager  eyes 
Above  his  lips  grown  grave  with  lies, 
In  haste  to  tell  him  that  the  queen, 
While  in  the  wild  wood  he  had  been, 
Had  borne  a  daughter  unto  him 
Strong,  fair  of  face,  and  straight  of  limb. 
So  well  at  ease  and  glad  thereat 
His  troubled  dream  he  nigh  forgat, 
His  troubled  waking,  and  the  ride 
Unto  the  fateful  river-side  ; 
Or  thought  of  all  as  little  things 
Unmeet  to  trouble  souls  of  kings. 

So  passed  the  days,  so  passed  the  years 
In  such  like  hopes,  and  such  like  fears, 
And  such  like  deeds  in  field  and  hall 
As  unto  royal  men  befall, 
And  fourteen  years  have  passed  away 
Since  on  the  huddled  brake  he  lay 
And  dreamed  that  dream,  remembered  now 
Once  and  again,  when  slow  and  slow 
The  minutes  of  some  sleepless  night 
Crawl  toward  the  dawning  of  the  light. 

Remembered  not  on  this  sweet  morn 
When  to  the  ringing  of  the  horn, 
Jingle  of  bits  and  mingled  shout 
Toward  that  same  stream  he  rideth  out 
To  see  his  gray-winged  falcons  fly. 

So  long  he  rode  he  drew  anigh 
A  mill  upon  the  river's  brim, 
That  seemed  a  goodly  place  to  him, 
For  o'er  the  oily  smooth  mill-head 
There  hung  the  apples  growing  red, 


THE  MAN  BORN  TO  BE  KING.  103 

And  many  an  ancient  apple-tree 

Within  the  orchard  could  he  see, 

While  the  smooth  mill-walls  white  and  black 

Shook  to  the  great  wheel's  measured  clack, 

And  grumble  of  the  gear  within  ; 

While  o'er  the  roof  that  dulled  that  din 

The  doves  sat  crooning  half  the  day, 

And  round  the  half-cut  stack  of  hay 

The  sparrows  fluttered  twittering. 

There  smiling  stayed  the  joyous  King, 
And  since  the  autumn  noon  was  hot 
Thought  good  anigh  that  pleasant  spot 
To  dine  that  day,  and  therewith  sent 
To  tell  the  miller  his  intent : 
Who  held  the  stirrup  of  the  king, 
Bareheaded,  joyful  at  the  thing, 
While  from  his  horse  he  lit  adown, 
Then  led  him  o'er  an  elm-beam  brown, 
New  cut  in  February  tide 
That  crossed  the  stream  from  side  to  side  ; 
So  underneath  the  apple-trees 
The  king  sat  careless,  well  at  ease 
And  ate  and  drank  right  merrily. 

To  whom  the  miller  drew  anigh 
Among  the  courtiers,  bringing  there 
Such  as  he  could  of  country  fare, 
Green  yellowing  plums  from  off  his  wall, 
Wasp-bitten  pears,  the  first  to  fall 
From  off  the  wavering  spire-like  tree, 
Junkets,  and  cream,  and  fresh  honey. 

Smiling  the  king  regarded  him, 
For  he  was  round-paunched,  short  of  limb, 
Red-faced,  with  long,  lank  flaxen  hair ; 
But  with  him  was  a  boy,  right  fair, 
Gray-eyed,  and  yellow-haired,  most  like 
Unto  some  Michael  who  doth  strike 
The  dragon  on  a  minster  wall, 
So  sweet-eyed  was  he,  and  withal 
So  fearless  of  all  things  he  seemed. 
But  when  he  saw  him  the  King  deemed 
He  scarce  could  be  the  miller's  kin, 
And  laughing  said,  "  Hast  thou  within 
Thy  dusty  mill  the  dame  who  bore 
This  stripling  in  the  days  of  yore, 
For  fain  were  I  to  see  her  now, 
If  she  be  liker  him  than  thou  ?  " 


104  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

"  Sire,"  said  the  miller,  "  that  may  be 
And  thou  my  dame  shalt  surely  see ; 
But  for  the  stripling,  neither  I 
Begat  him,  nor  my  wife  did  lie 
In  labor  when  the  lad  was  born, 
But  as  an  outcast  and  forlorn 
We  found  him  fourteen  years  to-day, 
So  quick  the  time  has  passed  away." 

Then  the  King,  hearkening  what  he  said, 
A  vanished  day  remembered, 
And  troubled  grew  his  face  thereat  j 
But  while  he  thought  of  this  and  that 
The  man  turned  from  him  and  was  gone 
And  by  him  stood  the  lad  alone  ; 
At  whom  he  gazed,  and  as  their  eyes 
Met,  a  great  horror  'gan  arise 
Within  his  heart,  and  back  he  shrank 
And  shuddering  a  deep  draught  he  drank, 
Scarce  knowing  if  his  royal  wine 
He  touched,  or  juice  of  some  hedge-vine. 

But  as  his  eyes  he  lifted  up 
From  off  his  jewelled  golden  cup, 
Once  more  the  miller  drew  anigh, 
By  whom  his  wife  went  timidly 
Bearing  some  burden  in  her  hand  ; 
So  when  before  him  she  did  stand 
And  he  beheld  her  worn  and  old, 
And  black-haired,  then  that  hair  of  gold, 
Gray  eyes,  firm  lips,  and  round  cleft  chin, 
Brought  stronger  memory  of  his  sin. 

But  the  carle  spake,  "  Dame,  tell  the  King 
How  this  befell,  a  little  thing 
The  thoughts  of  such  great  folk  to  hold, 
Speak  out,  and  fear  not  to  be  bold." 

"  My  tale,"  she  said,  "  is  short  enow, 
For  this  day  fourteen  years  ago 
Along  this  river-side  I  rode 
From  market  to  our  poor  abode, 
Where  we  dwelt  far  from  other  men, 
Since  thinner  was  the  country  then 
Than  now  it  is  ;  so  as  I  went 
And  wearied  o'er  my  panniers  bent, 
From  out  the  stream  a  feeble  cry 
I  heard,  and  therewith  presently, 
From  off  my  mule's  back  could  I  see 


THE  MAN  BORN  TO  BE  KING.  105 

This  boy  who  standeth  here  by  thee, 

A  naked,  new-born  infant,  laid 

In  a  rough  ark  that  had  been  stayed 

By  a  thick  tangled  bed  of  weed  ; 

So  pitying  the  youngling's  need, 

Dismounting,  did  I  wade  for  him 

Waist  deep,  whose  ark  now  scarce  did  swim ; 

And  he,  with  cold,  and  misery, 

And  hunger,  was  at  point  to  die. 

"  Withal,  I  bare  him  to  the  mill 
And  cherished  him,  and  had  good-will 
To  bring  the  babe  up  as  mine  own ; 
Since  childless  were  we  and  alone, 
And  no  one  came  to  father  it. 
So  oft  have  I  rejoiced  to  sit 
Beside  the  fire  and  watch  him  play. 
And  now,  behold  him  !  —  but  some  day 
I  look  to  lose  him,  for,  indeed, 
I  deem  he  comes  of  royal  seed, 
Unmeet  for  us  :  and  now,  my  lord, 
Have  you  heard  every  foolish  word 
About  my  son  —  this  boy  —  whose  name 
Is  Michael,  soothly,  since  he  came 
To  us  this  day  nigh  Michaelmas. 
—  See,  sire,  the  ark  wherein  he  was  ! 
Which  I  have  kept " 

Therewith  she  drew 
A  cloth  away  ;  but  the  King  knew, 
Long  ere  she  moved,  what  he  should  see, 
Nor  looked,  but  seeming  carelessly 
Leaned  on  the  board  and  hid  his  eyes. 
But  at  the  last  did  he  arise 
And  saw  the  painted  lion  red, 
Not  faded,  well  remembered ; 
Withal  he  thought,  "  And  who  of  these 
Were  with  me  then  amongst  the  trees 
To  see  this  box  ?  "  but  presently 
He  thought  again  that  none  but  he 
And  the  gray  squire,  old  Samuel, 
That  painting  could  have  noted  welL 
Since  Samuel  his  cloak  had  cast 
About  it,  and  therewith  had  passed 
Throughout  the  forest  on  that  day, 
And  not  till  all  were  well  away 
Had  drawn  it  off  before  the  King. 
But  changed  and  downcast  at  the  thing 


106  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

He  left  the  lovely  autumn  place, 
Still  haunted  by  the  new-found  face 
Of  his  old  foe,  and  back  he  rode 
Unto  his  ancient  rich  abode, 
Forcing  but  dismal  merriment 
As  midst  his  smiling  lords  he  went ; 
Who  yet  failed  not  to  note  his  mood, 
So  changed  :  and  some  men  of  the  wood 
Remembered  them,  but  said  not  aught, 
Yea,  trembled  lest  their  hidden  thought 
Some  bird  should  learn,  and  carry  it 

The  morrow  come,  the  King  did  sit 
Alone,  to  talk  with  Samuel, 
Who  yet  lived,  gathering  wage  for  hell. 
He  from  the  presence  in  a  while 
Came  forth,  and  with  his  ugly  smile 
He  muttered,  "  Well  betide  me,  then, 
St.  Peter  !  they  are  lucky  men 
Who  serve  no  kings,  since  they  indeed 
May  damn  themselves  each  for  his  need. 
And  will  not  he  outlive  this  day 
Whom  the  deep  water  could  not  slay, 
Ere  yet  his  lips  had  tasted  food  ?  " 
With  that  a  horse,  both  strong  and  good, 
He  gat  of  the  king's  equerry, 
And  toward  the  mill  rode  speedily. 

There  Michael  by  the  mill-tail  lay, 
Watching  the  swift  stream  snatch  away 
His  float  from  midst  the  careless  dace  ; 
But  thinking  of  the  thin,  dark  face, 
That  yesterday  all  men  he  saw 
Gaze  at  with  seeming  love  and  awe ; 
Nor  had  he,  wondering  at  the  lords, 
Lost  one  word  of  the  housewife's  words  ; 
And  still  he  noted  that  the  King 
Beheld  him  as  a  wondrous  thing, 
Strange  to  find  there  :  so  in  his  heart 
He  thought  to  play  some  royal  part 
In  this  wild  play  of  life,  and  made 
Stories,  wherein  great  words  he  said, 
And  did  great  deeds  in  desperate  fight 
But  midst  these  thoughts  there  came  in  sight 
He  who  had  carried  him  of  yore 


THE  MAN  BORN  TO  BE  KING,  107 

From  out  the  woodman's  broken  door, 
Dressed  like  a  king's  man,  with  fine  gold 
Touching  his  hard  brown  hands  and  old, 
So  was  his  sleeve  embroidered  ; 
A  plumed  hat  had  he  on  his  head, 
And  by  his  side  a  cutting  sword 
Fit  for  the  girdle  of  a  lord  ; 
And  round  his  neck  a  knife  he  bore, 
Whose  hilt  was  well  enamelled  o'er, 
With  green  leaves  on  a  golden  ground, 
Whose  stem  a  silver  scroll  enwound  ; 
Charged  with  those  letters,  writ  in  black, 
Strike  !  for  no  dead  man  cometh  back  ! 

The  boy  gazed  at  him  earnestly, 
With  beating  heart,  as  he  drew  nigh. 
And  when  at  last  he  drew  his  rein 
Beside  him,  thought  that  not  in  vain 
His  dream  might  be.     But  Samuel 
Below  his  breath  said  :  "  Surely  well 
Shalt  thou  fulfil  thy  destiny  ; 
And,  spite  of  all,  thou  wilt  not  die 
Till  thou  hast  won  the  arched  crown  ?  " 

But  with  that  word  he  lighted  down, 
And  said  aloud,  "  Lad,  tell  to  me 
Where  the  good  miller  I  may  see, 
For  from  the  King  I  come  to-day, 
And  have  a  word  to  him  to  say  ; 
I  think,  indeed,  concerning  thee  ; 
For  surely  thou  his  lad  must  be." 

Then  Michael  leaped  up,  nor  took  heed 
Of  how  the  nibbling  dace  might  feed 
Upon  the  loose  ends  of  his  bait ; 
"  Fair  sir,"  he  said,  "  my  sire  doth  wait 
Until  men  bring  his  mare  from  grass, 
For  to  the  good  town  will  he  pass, 
Since  he  has  need  of  household  gear ; 
Follow,  my  lord,  the  place  is  here." 

Withal,  the  good  steed  being  made  fast, 
Unto  the  other  side  they  passed, 
And  by  the  door  the  miller  found, 
Who  bowed  before  him  to  the  ground, 
And  asked  what  he  would  have  him  do. 
Then  from  his  bosom  Samuel  drew 
A  scroll,  and  said,  "Good  friend,  read  here, 
And  do  my  bidding  without  fear 
Of  doing  ill." 


108  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE, 

"  Sir,"  said  the  man, 
"  But  little  lettered  skill  I  can  ; 
Let  my  dame  come,  for  she  can  read 
Well-written  letters  at  good  need. " 

"  Nay,  friend,"  he  said,  "  suffice  it  thee 
This  seal  at  the  scroll's  end  to  see, 
My  lord  the  King's  ;  and  hear  my  word, 
That  I  come  hither  from  my  lord 
Thy  foundling  lad  to  have  away 
To  serve  the  King  from  this  same  day." 

Downcast  the  miller  looked  thereat, 
And,  twisting  round  his  dusty  hat, 
Said,  "  Well,  my  lord,  so  must  it  be, 
Nor  is  he  aught  akin  to  me, 
Nor  seems  so  :  none  the  less  would  I 
Have  left  him,  when  I  came  to  die, 
All  things  I  have,  with  this  my  mill, 
Wherein  he  hath  no  'prentice  skill, 
Young  as  he  is  :  and  surely  here 
Might  he  have  lived,  with  little  fear, 
A  life  of  plenty  and  of  bliss  — 
Near  by,  too,  a  fair  maid  there  is, 
I  looked  should  be  good  wife  to  him." 

Meanwhile  young  Michael's  head  'gan  swim 
With  thoughts  of  noble  life  and  praise ; 
And  he  forgat  the  happy  days 
Wherein  the  happy  dreams  he  dreamed 
That  now  so  near  fulfilment  seemed  ; 
And,  looking  through  the  open  mill, 
Stared  at  the  gray  and  windy  hill 
And  saw  it  not,  but  some  fair  place 
Made  strange  with  many  a  changing  face, 
And  all  his  life  that  was  to  be. 

But  Samuel,  laughing  scornfully, 
Said,  "  O  good  soul,  thou  thinkest  then 
This  is  a  life  for  well-born  men, 
As  our  lord  deems  this  youngling  is  — 
Tell  me,  good  lad,  where  lies  thy  bliss  ?  " 

But  Michael  turned  shamefaced  and  red, 
Waked  from  his  dream,  and  stammering  said, 
"Fair  sir,  my  life  is  sweet  and  good, 
And  John,  the  ranger  of  the  wood, 
Saith  that  I  draw  so  good  a  bow, 
That  I  shall  have  full  skill  enow, 
Ere  many  months  have  passed  me  by, 


THE  MAN  BORN  TO  BE  KING.  109 

To  join  the  muster,  and  to  try 
To  win  the  bag  of  florins  white, 
That  folk,  on  Barnaby  the  bright, 
Shoot  for  within  the  market-town. 
Sir,  please  you  to  look  up  and  down 
The  weedy  reaches  of  our  stream, 
And  note  the  bubbles  of  the  bream, 
And  see  the  great  chub  take  the  fly, 
And  watch  the  long  pike  basking  lie 
Outside  the  shadow  of  the  weed. 
Withal  there  come  unto  our  need 
Woodcock  and  snipe  when  swallows  go  ; 
And  now  the  water-hen  flies  low 
With  feet  that  wellnigh  touch  the  reeds, 
And  plovers  cry  about  the  meads, 
And  the  stares  chatter  ;  certes,  sir, 
It  is  a  fair  place  all  the  year." 

Eying  him  grimly,  Samuel  said, 
"  Thou  show'st  churl's  breeding,  by  my  head, 
In  foul  despite  of  thy  fair  face  ! 
Take  heart,  for  to  a  better  place 
Thou  goest  now.  —  Miller,  farewell, 
Nor  need'st  them  to  the  neighbors  tell 
The  noble  fortunes  of  the  lad  ; 
For,  certes,  he  shall  not  be  glad 
To  know  them  in  a  year  or  twain. 
Yet  shall  thy  finding  not  be  vain, 
And  thou  may'st  bless  it ;  for  behold 
This  bag  wherein  is  store  of  gold  ; 
Take  it  and  let  thy  hinds  go  play, 
And  grind  no  corn  for  many  a  day, 
For  it  would  buy  thy  mill  and  thee. " 

He  turned  to  go,  but  pensively 
Stood  Michael,  for  his  broken  dream 
Doubtful  and  far  away  did  seem 
Amid  the  squire's  rough  mockeries  ; 
And  tears  were  gathering  in  his  eyes. 
But  the  kind  miller's  rough  farewell 
Rang  in  his  ears  ;  and  Samuel 
Stamped  with  his  foot  and  plucked  his  sleeve  ; 
So  therewithal  he  turned  to  leave 
His  old  abode,  the  quiet  place, 
Trembling,  with  wet  and  tearful  face. 

But  even  as  he  turned  there  came 
From  out  the  house  the  simple  dame 
And  cast  rough  arms  about  the  lad, 


1 10  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Saying,  "  For  that  I  have  been  glad 
By  means  of  thee  this  many  a  day, 
My  mourning  heart  this  hour  doth  pay. 
But,  fair  son,  may'st  thou  live  in  bliss, 
And  die  in  peace  ;  remembering  this, 
When  thou  art  come  to  high  estate, 
That  in  our  house,  early  and  late, 
The  happy  house  that  shall  be  sad, 
Thou  hadst  the  best  of  all  we  had 
And  love  unfeigned  from  us  twain, 
Whose  hearts  thou  madest  young  again, 
Hearts  that  the  quicker  old  shall  grow 
Now  thou  art  gone." 

"Good  dame,  enow," 
Quoth  Samuel,  "  the  day  grows  late, 
And  sure  the  King  for  meat  shall  wait 
Until  he  see  this  new-found  lord." 
He  strode  away  upon  that  word  ; 
And  half  ashamed,  and  half  afeard, 
Yet  eager  as  his  dream  he  neared, 
Shyly  the  lad  went  after  him. 
They  crossed  the  stream  and  by  its  brim 
Both  mounted  the  great  war-horse  gray, 
And  without  word  they  rode  away. 

But  as  along  the  river's  edge 
They  went,  and  brown  birds  in  the  sedge 
Twittered  their  sweet  and  formless  tune 
In  the  fair  autumn  afternoon, 
And  reach  by  reach  the  well-known  stream 
They  passed,  again  the  hopeful  dream 
Of  one  too  young  to  think  death  near, 
Who  scarce  had  learned  the  name  of  fear 
Remorseful  memories  put  to  flight ; 
Lovely  the  whole  world  showed  and  bright. 
Nor  did  the  harsh  voice  rouse  again 
The  thought  of  mockery  or  of  pain, 
For  other  thoughts  held  Samuel. 

So,  riding  silently  and  well, 
They  reached  at  last  the  dusty  road 
That  led  unto  the  King's  abode. 
But  Samuel  turned  away  his  face 
Therefrom,  and  at  a  steady  pace 
The  great  horse  thundered  o'er  the  bridge, 
And  made  on  toward  the  heathy  ridge, 
Wherefrom  they  rode  that  other  day ; 


THE  MAN  BORN  TO  BE  KING.  in 

But  Michael,  noting  well  the  way, 
Why  thus  they  went,  fell  wondering, 
And  said  aloud,  "Dwells  then  the  King, 
Fair  sir,  as  now  within  the  wood  ?  " 

"  Young  fool,  where  that  it  seems  him  good 
He  dwelleth,"  quoth  old  Samuel, 
"  And  now  it  pleaseth  him  to  dwell 
With  the  black  monks  across  the  wood." 

Withal  he  muttered  in  his  hood, 
"  Curst  be  the  King,  and  thee  also, 
Who  thrust  me  out  such  deeds  to  do ; 
When  I  should  bide  at  home  to  pray, 
Who  draw  so  nigh  my  ending  day. " 
So  saying  forth  his  horse  he  spurred 
And  to  himself  said  yet  this  word, 
"  Yea,  yea,  and  of  all  days  forlorn 
God  curse  the  day  when  I  was  born. " 

Therewith  he  groaned  ;  yet  saying  thus 
His  case  seemed  hard  and  piteous, 
When  he  remembered  how  of  old 
Another  tale  he  might  have  told. 

So  as  each  thought  his  own  thoughts  still, 
The  horse  began  to  breast  the  hill, 
And  still  they  went  on  higher  ground, 
Until  as  Michael  turned  him  round 
He  saw  the  sunny  country-side 
Spread  out  before  him  far  and  wide, 
Golden  amidst  its  waning  green, 
Joyous  with  varied  life  unseen. 
Meanwhile  from  side  to  side  of  them 
The  trees  began  their  way  to  hem, 
As  still  he  gazed  from  tree  to  tree, 
And  when  he  turned  back  presently 
He  saw  before  him  like  a  wall 
Uncounted  tree-trunks  dim  and  tall. 
Then  with  their  melancholy  sound 
The  odorous  spruce  woods  met  around 
Those  wayfarers,  and  when  he  turned 
Once  more,  far  off  the  sunlight  burned 
In  star-like  spots,  while  from  o'erhead, 
Dim  twilight  through  the  boughs  was  shed. 

Not  there  as  yet  had  Michael  been, 
Nor  had  he  left  the  meadows  green 
Dotted  about  with  spreading  trees, 
And  fresh  with  sun  and  rain  and  breeze, 
For  those  murk  woods,  and  still  his  eyes 


THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Gazed  round  about  for  mysteries. 

Since  many  an  old  wife's  tale  he  knew  ; 

Huge  wood-cutters  in  raiment  blue, 

The  remnant  of  a  mighty  race, 

The  ancient  masters  of  the  place, 

And  hammering  trolls  he  looked  to  see, 

And  dancers  of  the  faerie, 

Who,  as  the  ancient  stories  told, 

In  front  were  lovely  to  behold, 

But  empty  shells  seen  from  behind. 

So  on  they  rode  until  the  wind 
Had  died  out,  stifled  by  the  trees, 
And  Michael  mid  those  images 
Of  strange  things  made  alive  by  fear, 
Grew  drowsy  in  the  forest  drear  ; 
Nor  noted  how  the  time  went  past 
Until  they  nigh  had  reached  at  last 
The  borders  of  the  spruce-tree  wood  ; 
And  with  a  tingling  of  the  blood 
Samuel  bethought  him  of  the  day 
When  turned  about  the  other  way 
He  carried  him  he  rode  with  now. 
For  the  firs  ended  on  the  brow 
Of  a  rough,  gravelly  hill,  and  there 
Lay  a  small  valley  nowise  fair 
Beneath  them,  clear  at  first  of  all 
But  brake,  till  amid  rushes  tall 
Down  in  the  bottom  alders  grew 
Crabbed  and  rough  ;  and  winding  through 
The  clayey  mounds  a  brook  there  was 
Oozy  and  foul,  half  choked  with  grass. 

There  now  the  Squire  awhile  drew  rein, 
And  noted  how  the  ground  again 
Rose  up  upon  the  other  side, 
And  saw  a  green  glade  opening  wide 
'Twixt  oaks  and  hollies,  and  he  knew 
Full  well  what  place  it  led  unto  ; 
Withal  he  heard  the  bittern's  boom, 
And  though  without  the  fir-wood's  gloom 
They  now  were  come,  yet  red  and  low 
The  sun  above  the  trees  did  show, 
And,  in  despite  of  hardihead, 
The  old  squire  had  a  mortal  dread 
Of  lying  in  the  wood  alone 
When  that  was  done  that  should  be  done. 


THE  MAN  BORN  TO  BE  KING.  113 

Now  Michael,  wakened  by  the  wind, 
Clutched  tighter  at  the  belt  behind, 
And  with  wide  eyes  was  staring  round, 
When  Samuel  said,  "  Get  to  the  ground, 
My  horse  shall  e'en  sink  deep  enow, 
Without  thy  body,  in  this  slough  ; 
And  haste  thee,  or  we  both  shall  lie 
Beneath  the  trees,  and  be  as  dry 
As  autumn  dew  can  make  us.     Haste  ! 
The  time  is  short  for  thee  to  waste. " 

Then  from  the  horse  the  boy  did  glide, 
And  slowly  down  the  valley-side 
They  went,  and  Michael,  wakened  now, 
Sang  such  rude  songs  as  he  might  know, 
Grown  fresh  and  joyous  of  his  life  ; 
While  Samuel,  clutching  at  the  knife 
About  his  neck  that  hung,  again 
Down  in  the  bottom  tightened  rein, 
And  turning,  in  a  hoarse  voice  said, 
"  My  girths  are  loosening,  by  my  head  ! 
Come  nigh  and  draw  them  tighter,  lad." 

Then  Michael  stayed  his  carol  glad, 
And  noting  little  in  his  mirth 
The  other's  voice,  unto  the  girth 
Without  a  word  straight  set  his  hand  : 
But  as  with  bent  head  he  did  stand, 
Straining  to  tighten  what  was  tight, 
In  Samuel's  hand  the  steel  flashed  bright, 
And  fell,  deep-smitten  in  his  side, 
Then,  leaping  back,  the  poor  lad  cried, 
As  if  for  help,  and  staggering  fell, 
With  wide  eyes  fixed  on  Samuel ; 
Who,  none  the  less  grown  deadly  pale, 
Lit  down,  lest  that  should  not  avail 
To  slay  him,  and  beside  him  knelt, 
And  since  his  eyes  were  closed  now,  felt 
His  heart  that  beat  yet :  therewithal 
His  hand  upon  the  knife  did  fall. 
But,  ere  his  fingers  clutched  it  well, 
Far  off  he  seemed  to  hear  a  bell, 
And  trembling  knelt  upright  again, 
And  listening  listened  not  in  vain, 
For  clear  he  heard  a  tinkling  sound. 
Then  to  his  horse  from  off  the  ground 
He  leapt,  nor  reasoned  with  his  dread, 
But  thought  the  angel  of  the  dead 
8 


114  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Was  drawing  nigh  the  slayer  to  slay, 
Ere  scarce  the  soul  had  passed  away. 
One  dreadful  moment  yet  he  heard 
That  bell,  then  like  a  madman  spurred 
His  noble  horse  ;  that,  maddened  too, 
The  close-set  fir-wood  galloped  through, 
Not  stayed  by  any  stock  or  stone, 
Until,  the  furious  race  being  done, 
Anigh  the  bridge  he  fell  down  dead  ; 
And  Samuel,  mazed  with  guilt  and  dread, 
Wandered  afoot  throughout  the  night, 
But  came,  at  dawning  of  the  light, 
Half  dead  unto  the  palace  gate. 

There  till  the  opening  did  he  wait ; 
Then,  by  the  King's  own  signet-ring, 
He  gained  the  chamber  of  the  King, 
And  painfully  what  he  had  done 
He  told,  and  how  the  thing  had  gone. 
And  said  withal :   "  Yet  is  he  dead, 
And  surely  that  which  made  my  dread 
Shall  give  thee  joy ;  for  doubt  not  aught 
That  bell  the  angels  to  him  brought, 
That  he  in  Abraham's  breast  might  lie  — 
So  ends,  O  King,  the  prophecy." 

Nathless  the  King  scowled,  ill  content, 
And  said,  "  I  deemed  that  I  had  sent 
A  man  of  war  to  do  my  will, 
Who  lacked  for  neither  force  nor  skill, 
And  thou  com'st  with  a  woman's  face, 
Bewildered  with  thy  desperate  race, 
And  made  an  idiot  with  thy  fear, 
Nor  bring'st  me  any  token  here  !  " 

Therewith  he  rose  and  gat  away, 
But  brooding  on  it  through  that  day. 
Thought  that  all  things  went  not  so  ill 
As  first  he  deemed,  and  that  he  still 
Might  leave  his  old  line  flourishing. 
Therewith  both  gold  and  many  a  thing 
Unto  old  Samuel  he  gave, 
But  thereby  failed  his  life  to  save ; 
Who,  not  so  old  in  years  as  sin, 
Died  ere  the  winter,  and  within 
The  minster  choir  was  laid  asleep, 
With  carven  saints  his  head  to  keep. 

And  so  the  days  and  years  went  by, 


THE  MAN  BORN  TO  BE  KING.  115 

And  still  in  great  felicity 
The  King  dwelt,  wanting  only  this  — 
A  son  wherewith  to  share  his  bliss, 
And  reign  when  he  was  dead  and  gone. 
Nor  had  he  daughter,  save  that  one 
Bom  on  the  night  when  Michael  first, 
Forlorn,  alone,  and  doubly  cursed, 
Felt  on  him  this  world's  bitter  air. 

This  daughter,  midst  fair  maids  most  fair, 
Was  not  yet  wed,  though  at  this  time, 
Being  come  unto  her  maiden's  prime, 
She  looked  upon  her  eighteenth  May. 

Midst  this  her  mother  passed  away, 
Not  much  lamented  of  the  King, 
Who  had  the  thought  of  marrying 
Some  dame  more  fertile,  and  who  sent 
A  wily  man  with  this  intent 
To  spy  the  countries  out  and  find 
Some  great  king's  daughter,  wise  and  kind, 
And  fresh,  and  fair,  in  face  and  limb, 
In  all  things  a  fit  mate  for  him. 

So  in  short  time  it  came  to  pass 
Again  the  King  well  wedded  was, 
And  hoped  once  more  to  have  a  son. 

And  when  this  fair  dame  he  had  won, 
A  year  in  peace  he  dwelt  with  her, 
Until  the  time  was  drawing  near 
When  first  his  eyes  beheld  that  foe 
He  deemed  was  dead  these  years  ago. 
Now  at  that  time,  as  custom  was, 
His  daughter  was  about  to  pass 
Unto  a  distant  house  of  his, 
Some  king  had  built  for  worldly  bliss 
In  ancient  days  :  there,  far  removed 
From  courts  or  towns,  the  dame  he  loved 
The  dead  king  had  been  wont  to  see 
Play  mid  the  summer  greenery, 
Or  like  Erigone  of  old 
Stand  in  the  vineyards  girt  with  gold, 
To  queen  it  o'er  the  vintagers, 
Half  worshipping  that  face  of  hers. 
Long  years  agone  these  folk  were  passed, 
Their  crimes  forgotten,  or  else  cast 
Into  the  glowing  crucible 
Of  time,  that  tempers  all  things  well, 


Il6  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

That  maketh  pleasure  out  of  pain, 
And  out  of  ruin  golden  gain  ; 
Nathless,  unshaken  still,  there  stood 
The  towers  and  ramparts  red  as  blood ; 
Wherein  their  lives  had  passed  away  j 
And  still  the  lovely  gardens  lay 
About  them,  changed,  but  smiling  still, 
As  in  past  time,  on  good  or  ill. 

Thither  the  Princess  Cecily 
Must  go  awhile  in  peace  to  be ; 
For  now,  midst  care,  and  doubt,  and  toil, 
Proud  words  drawn  back,  and  half-healed  broil, 
The  King  had  found  one  meet  to  wed 
His  daughter,  of  great  goodlihead, 
Wealth,  and  unbroken  royalty. 
And  now  he  said  to  her,  when  she 
Was  setting  out  for  that  fair  place, 
"  O  daughter,  thou  shall  see  my  face 
Before  a  month  is  fully  gone, 
Nor  wilt  thou  see  me  then  alone  ; 
For  that  man  shall  be  with  me  then, 
Whom  I  have  chosen  from  all  men 
To  give  my  dearest  treasure  to. 
Most  fain  he  is  to  look  on  you, 
"  Nor  need'st  thou  fear  him  for  thy  part, 
Who  holdeth  many  a  woman's  heart 
As  the  net  holds  the  silvery  fish. 
Farewell,  —  and  all  things  thou  may'st  wish 
I  pray  God  grant  thee. " 

Therewithal 

He  kissed  her,  and  from  out  the  hall 
She  passed,  not  shamefaced,  or  afraid 
Of  what  might  happen  ;  though,  indeed, 
Her  heart  of  no  man.'s  heart  had  need 
To  make  her  happy,  as  she  thought 

Ever  the  new  sun  daily  brought 
Fresh  joy  of  life  to  her  bedside, 
The  world'before  her  open  wide 
Was  spread,  a  place  for  joy  and  bliss. 
Her  lips  had  trembled  with  no  kiss, 
Wherewith  love  slayeth  fear  and  shame  ; 
Her  gray  eyes,  conscious  of  no  blame, 
Beheld  unmoved  the  eyes  of  men  ; 
Her  hearing  grew  no  dimmer  when 
Some  unused  footstep  she  might  hear ; 


THE  MAN  BORN  TO   BE   KING.  117 

And  unto  no  man  was  she  clear, 

But  as  some  goddess  might  have  been 

When  Greek  men  worshipped  many  a  queen. 

Now  with  her  armed  folk  forth  she  rode 
Unto  that  ancient  fair  abode, 
And  while  the  lark  sung  o'er  the  corn, 
Love  gilded  not  the  waning  morn  ; 
And  when  the  sun  rose  high  above, 
High  thoughts  she  thought,  but  not  of  love ; 
And  when  that  sun  the  world  did  leave, 
He  left  no  love  to  light  the  eve. 
The  moon  no  melancholy  brought, 
The  dawn  no  vain,  remorseful  thought 
But  all  untroubled  her  sweet  face 
Passed  'neath  the  gate  of  that  old  place, 
And  there  her  bridegroom  she  abode. 

But  scarce  was  she  upon  the  road 
Ere  news  unto  the  King  was  brought 
That  Peter,  the  old  abbot,  sought 
To  see  him,  having  newly  come 
From  the  wild  place  that  was  his  home 
Across  the  forest ;  so  the  King 
Bade  him  to  enter,  well  willing 
To  hear  what  he  might  have  to  say ; 
Who,  entering  the  hall  straightway, 
Had  with  him  an  old,  reverend  man, 
The  sub-prior,  Father  Adrian, 
And  five  monks  more,  and  therewithal 
Ten  of  his  folk,  stout  men  and  tall, 
Who  bore  armed  staves  and  coats  of  fence. 

So,  when  he  came  to  audience, 
He  prayed  the  King  of  this  or  that, 
Whereof  my  tale-teller  forgat, 
And  graciously  the  King  heard  all, 
And  said  at  last,  "  Well,  what  may  fall, 
Thou  go'st  not  hence,  fair  lord,  to-day ; 
Unless  in  vain  a  king  must  pray, 
Thou  and  thy  monks  shall  eat  with  me  ; 
While  feast  thine  axe-men  merrily." 

Withal,  he  eyed  the  abbot's  folk 
In  careless  mood,  then  once  more  spoke, 
"Tall  men  thou  feedest,  by  the  rood  ! 
Lord  Abbot,  come  they  from  the  wood  ? 
Dwell  many  more  such  thereabout? 


ii8  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Fain  were  I  such  should  swell  the  shout 
When  I  am  armed,  and  rank  meets  rank." 

But  as  he  spoke  his  loud  voice  sank 
Wavering,  nor  heard  he  aught  at  all 
Of  the  faint  noises  of  the  hall, 
Or  what  the  monk  in  answer  said  ; 
For,  looking  from  a  steel-clad  head, 
Those  eyes  again  did  he  behold, 
That  erst  from  'neath  the  locks  of  gold 
Kindly  and  bold,  but  soft  with  awe, 
Beneath  the  apple-boughs  he  saw. 

But  when  for  sure  this  thing  he  knew 
Pale  to  the  very  lips  he  grew. 
Till  gathering  heart  within  a  while 
With  the  faint  semblance  of  a  smile, 
He  seemed  to  note  the  Abbot's  words 
That  he  heard  not ;  then  from  the  lords 
He  turned,  and  facing  Michael  said, 
"  Raise  up  the  steel  cap  from  thine  head, 
That  I  may  see  if  thou  look'st  bold ; 
Methinks  I  know  thy  face  of  old, 
Whence  com'st  thou  ?  " 

Michael  lifted  straight 
From  off  his  brow  the  steel  cap's  weight, 
And  showed  the  bright  locks  curling  round 
His  fresh  and  ruddy  face,  sunbrowned, 
And  in  a  voice  clear  as  a  bell, 
Told  all  his  story,  till  he  fell 
Sore  wounded  in  that  dismal  vale, 
And  said  withal,  "  My  lord,  the  tale 
Of  what  came  after,  none  knoweth 
Better  than  he  who  from  ill  death 
Saved  me  that  tide,  and  made  me  man, 
My  lord,  the  sub-prior  Adrian." 

"  Speak  on  then,  father,"  quoth  the  King, 
Making  as  he  was  still  hearkening. 
"  My  lord,"  said  Adrian,  "  I,  who  then 
Was  but  a  server  of  poor  men, 
Outside  our  Abbey  walls,  one  day 
Was  called  by  one  in  poor  array, 
A  charcoal-burner's  lad,  who  said 
That  soon  his  father  would  be  dead, 
And  that  of  all  things  he  would  have 
His  rights,  that  he  his  soul  might  save. 
I  made  no  tarrying  at  that  word, 
But  took  between  mine  hands  the  Lord, 


THE  MAN  BORN  TO  BE  KING.  119 

And  bade  the  boy  bear  forth  the  bell  ; 
For  though  few  folk  there  were  to  tell 
Who  passed  that  way,  nathless,  I  trow 
The  beasts  were  glad  that  news  to  know. 

"  Well,  by  the  pine-wood's  skirts  we  went 
While  through  its  twilight  the  bell  sent 
A  heavenly  tinkling  ;  but  the  lad 
'Gan  telling  me  of  fears  he  had 
Of  elves  who  dwell  within  the  wood. 
I  chid  him  thereat,  as  was  good, 
Bidding  him  note  Whom  in  mine  hands 
I  held,  The  Ransom  of  all  Lands. 
But  as  the  fir-wood's  dim  twilight 
Waxed  into  day,  and  fair  and  bright 
The  evening  sun  showed  through  the  trees, 
Our  ears,  fanned  by  the  evening  breeze, 
The  galloping  of  horse-hoofs  heard, 
Wherewith  my  page  hung  back  afeard 
Of  elves  and  such  like  ;  but  I  said, 
'  Wilt  thou  thy  father  should  be  dead 
Ere  we  can  reach  him  ?     O  my  son, 
Fear  not  that  aught  can  stay  This  One.' 

"  Therewith  I  smote  my  mule,  and  he 
Ran  forward  with  me  hastily 
As  fearing  to  be  left  behind. 
Well,  as  we  went,  what  should  we  find 
Down  by  the  stream,  but  this  my  son, 
Who  seemed  as  though  his  days  were  done ; 
For  in  his  side  a  knife  there  stood 
Wherefrom  ran  out  a  stream  of  blood, 
Soaking  the  grass  and  water-mint ; 
Then,  I  dismounting,  we  by  dint 
Of  all  our  strength  the  poor  youth  laid 
Upon  my  mule,  and  down  a  glade 
Of  oaks  and  hollies  then  we  passed, 
And  reached  the  woodman's  home  at  last ; 
A  poor  hut,  built  of  wattled  wood, 
And  by  its  crooked  gable  stood 
A  ruinous  shed,  unroofed  and  old, 
That  beasts  of  burden  once  did  hold. 
— Thyself,  my  lord,  may'st  know  it  well, 
Since  thereabout  the  wild  swine  dwell ; 
And  hart,  and  hind,  and  roe  are  there.  — 
So  the  lad's  wounds  I  stanched  with  care 
Forthwith,  and  then  the  man  I  shrived, 
Who  none  the  less  got  well  and  lived 


THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

For  many  a  clay  :  then  back  I  went, 

And  the  next  day  our  leech  I  sent 

With  drugs  to  tend  upon  the  lad. 

Who  soon  was  as  he  ne'er  had  had 

A  hurt  at  all :  and  he  being  well 

We  took  him  in  our  house  to  dwell, 

And  taught  him  letters,  and,  indeed, 

Before  long,  Latin  could  he  read 

As  well  as  I ;  but  hath  no  will 

To  turn  unto  religion  still. 

Yet  is  he  good  and  doth  no  wrong ; 

And  being  thereto  both  hale  and  strong, 

My  lord,  the  Abbot,  sayeth  of  him, 

'  He  shall  serve  God  with  heart  and  limb, 

Not  heart  and  voice.'     Therefore,  my  lord, 

Thou  seest  him  armed  with  spear  and  sword 

For  their  defence  who  feed  him  still, 

Teach  him,  and  guard  his  soul  from  ill. 

Ho,  Michael  !  hast  thou  there  with  thee 

The  fair-wrought  knife  I  first  did  see 

Deep  in  thy  side  ?  —  there,  show  it  now 

Unto  the  King,  that  he  may  know 

Our  tale  is  not  a  fabled  thing. " 

Withal  the  King,  as  one  listening, 
With  his  thin,  anxious  face  and  pale, 
Sat  leaning  forward  through  this  tale, 
Scarce  noting  here  and  there  a  word. 
But  all  being  told,  at  last  he  heard 
His  own  voice  changed,  and  harsh,  and  low, 
That  said,  "  Fair  lord,  I  fain  would  know, 
Since  this  your  man-at-arms  seems  true, 
What  thing  will  he  be  worth  to  you  ; 
For  better  had  he  wear  my  rose 
Than  loiter  in  your  Abbey-close, 
Poring  o'er  books  no  man  can  read." 

"  O  sire  !  "  the  monk  said,  "  if  your  need 
Be  great  of  such  men,  let  him  go  ; 
My  men-at-arms  need  make  no  show 
Of  fairness,  nor  should  ladies  miss, 
E'en  as  thou  say'st,  such  men  as  this." 

Laughing  he  spoke ;  the  King  the  while 
His  pale  face  puckering  to  a  smile ; 
Then,  as  in  some  confused  dream, 
In  Michael's  hand  he  saw  the  gleam 
Of  that  same  steel  remembered  well, 
The  gift  he  gave  to  Samuel ; 


THE  MAN  BORN  TO  BE  KING, 

Drawn  from  his  father's  ancient  chest 
To  do  that  morn  his  own  behest 
And  as  he  now  beheld  its  sheen, 
The  twining  stem  of  gold  and  green, 
The  white  scroll  with  the  letters  black,  — 
Strike  !  for  no  dead  man  cometh  back  ! 
He  hardened  yet  his  heart  once  more, 
And  grown  unhappy  as  before, 
When  last  he  had  that  face  in  sight, 
Brought  now  the  third  time  to  the  light, 
Once  more  was  treacherous,  fierce,  and  felL 

Now  was  the  Abbot  feasted  well 
With  all  his  folk,  then  went  away, 
But  Michael  clad  in  rich  array 
Became  the  King's  man,  and  was  thought 
By  all  most  happy  to  be  brought 
Unto  such  hopeful  fair  estate. 

For  ten  days  yet  the  King  did  wait, 
Which  past,  for  Michael  did  he  send, 
And  he  being  come,  said  to  him,  "  Friend, 
Take  now  this  letter  from  my  hand 
And  go  unto  our  southern  land  ; 
My  captain  Hugh  shall  go  with  thee 
For  one  day's  journey,  then  shall  he 
Tell  thee  which  way  thou  hast  to  ride  ; 
The  third  day  thence  about  noontide, 
If  thou  dost  well,  thou  shouldst  be  close 
Unto  my  Castle  of  the  Rose 
Where  dwells  my  daughter  ;  needs  it  is 
That  no  man  living  should  see  this 
Until  that  thou  within  my  wall 
Hast  given  it  to  the  seneschal ; 
Be  wise  and  wary  then,  that  thou 
May'st  think  of  this  that  happeneth  now 
As  birthday  to  thine  high  estate." 

So  said  he,  knowing  not  that  fate 
Was  dealing  otherwise  than  he. 

But  Michael  going  presently 
Met  Hugh,  a  big  man  rough  and  black, 
"  And  who  of  naught  but  words  had  lack, 
With  him  he  mounted,  and  set  forth 
And  daylong  rode  on  from  the  north. 

Now  if  the  King  had  hope  that  Hugh 
Some  deed  like  Samuel's  might  do, 
.  I  know  not,  certes  naught  he  said 


THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

To  that  hard  heart  and  narrow  head, 
Who  knew  no  wiles  but  wiles  of  war, 
And  was  as  true  as  such  men  are  ; 
Yet  had  there  been  a  tale,  to  tell 
If  Michael  had  not  held  him  well, 
And  backward  still  the  wrath  had  turned 
Wherewith  his  heart  not  seldom  burned 
At  scornful  words  his  fellow  said. 

At  last  they  reached  cross-ways  that  led 
One  west,  one  southward  still,  whereat 
Hugh,  taking  off  his  feathered  hat, 
Bowed  low  in  scorn,  and  said,  "  Fair  sir, 
Unto  the  westward  must  I  spur, 
While  you  go  southward,  soon  to  get, 
I  doubt  not,  an  earl's  coronet ; 
Farewell,  my  lord,  and  yet  beware 
Thou  dost  not  at  my  lady  stare 
Too  hard,  lest  thou  shouldst  plumb  the  moat, 
Or  have  a  halter  round  thy  throat. " 

But  Michael  to  his  scoff  said  naught, 
But  upon  high  things  set  his  thought 
As  his  departing  hoofs  he  heard. 
And  still  betwixt  the  hedge-rows  spurred, 
And  when  the  twilight  was  o'erpast 
At  a  small  inn  drew  rein  at  last, 
And  slept  that  night  as  such  folk  can  ; 
And  while  next  morn  the  thrushes  ran 
Their  first  course  through  the  autumn  dew, 
The  gossamers  did  he  dash  through, 
And  on  his  way  rode  steadily 
The  livelong  day,  nor  yet  was  he 
Alone,  as  well  might  be  that  day 
Since  a  fair  town  was  in  his  way, 
Stout  hinds  he  passed,  and  yeomen  good, 
Some  friar  in  his  heavy  hood, 
And  white-coifed  housewives  mounted  high 
Above  their  maunds,  while  merrily 
The  well-shod  damsel  trudged  along 
Beside  them,  sending  forth  a  song 
As  little  taught  as  is  a  bird's ; 
And  good  men,  good  wives,  priests,  and  herds, 
And  merry  maids,  failed  not  to  send 
Good  wishes  for  his  journey's  end 
Unto  him  as  still  on  he  sped, 
Free  from  all  evil  thoughts  or  dread. 


THE  MAN  BORN  TO  BE  KING.  123 

Withal  again  the  day  went  by, 
And  in  that  city's  hostelry 
He  slept,  and  by  the  dawn  of  day 
Next  morn  again  was  on  his  way, 
And  leaving  the  scarce-wakened  street 
The  newly  risen  sun  did  greet 
With  cheerful  heart     His  way  wound  on 
Still  up  and  up  till  he  had  won 
Up  to  a  great  hill's  chalky  brow, 
Whence  looking  back  he  saw  below 
The  town  spread  out,  church,  square,  and  street, 
And  baily,  crawling  up  the  feet 
Of  the  long  yew-besprinkled  hill ; 
And  in  the  fragrant  air  and  still, 
Seeming  to  gain  new  life  from  it, 
The  doves  from  roof  to  roof  did  flit : 
The  early  fires  sent  up  their  smoke 
That  seemed  to  him  to  tell  of  folk 
New  wakened  unto  great  delight : 
For  he  upon  that  morning  bright, 
So  joyous  felt,  so  free  from  pain, 
He  seemed  as  he  were  born  again 
Into  some  new  immortal  state 
That  knew  no  envy,  fear,  or  hate. 

Now  the  road  turned  to  his  left  hand 
And  led  him  through  a  table-land, 
Windy  and  barren  of  all  grain  ; 
But  where  a  hollow  specked  the  plain 
The  yew-trees  hugged  the  sides  of  it, 
And  mid  them  did  the  woodlark  flit 
Or  sang  well-sheltered  from  the  wind, 
And  all  about  the  sheep  did  find 
Sweet  grass,  the  while  the  shepherd's  song 
Rang  clear  as  Michael  sped  along. 

Long  time  he  rode,  till  suddenly, 
When  now  the  sun  was  broad  and  high, 
From  out  a  hollow  where  the  yew 
Still  guarded  patches  of  the  dew, 
He  found  at  last  that  he  had  won 
That  highland's  edge,  and  gazed  upon 
A  valley  that  beneath  the  haze 
Of  that  most  fair  of  autumn  days 
Showed  glorious  ;  fair  with  golden  sheaves, 
Rich  with  the  darkened  autumn  leaves, 
Gay  with  the  water-meadows  green, 
The  bright  blue  streams  that  lay  between, 


THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

The  miles  of  beauty  stretched  away 
From  that  bleak  hillside  bare  and  gray, 
Till  white  cliffs  over  slopes  of  vine 
Drew  'gainst  the  sky  a  broken  line. 
And  'twixt  the  vineyards  and  the  stream 
Michael  saw  gilded  spirelets  gleam  ; 
For,  hedged  with  many  a  flowery  close, 
There  lay  the  Castle  of  the  Rose, 
His  hurried  journey's  aim  and  end. 

Then  downward  he  began  to  wend, 
And  'twixt  the  flowery  hedges  sweet 
He  heard  the  hook  smite  down  the  wheat, 
And  murmur  of  the  unseen  folk  ; 
But  when  he  reached  the  stream  that  broke 
The  golden  plain,  but  leisurely 
He  passed  the  bridge,  for  he  could  see 
The  masters  of  that  ripening  realm, 
Cast  down  beneath  an  ancient  elm 
Upon  a  little  strip  of  grass, 
From  hand  to  hand  the  pitcher  pass, 
While  on  the  turf  beside  them  lay 
The  ashen-handled  sickles  gray, 
The  matters  of  their  cheer  between  : 
Slices  of  white  cheese,  specked  with  green, 
And  green-striped  onions  and  rye-bread, 
And  summer  apples  faintly  red, 
Even  beneath  the  crimson  skin  ; 
And  yellow  grapes,  well  ripe  and  thin, 
Plucked  from  the  cottage  gable-end. 

And  certes  Michael  felt  their  friend 
Hearing  their  voices,  nor  forgot 
His  boyhood  and  the  pleasant  spot 
Beside  the  well-remembered  stream ; 
And  friendly  did  this  water  seem 
As  through  its  white-flowered  weeds  it  ran 
Bearing  good  things  to  beast  and  man. 

Yea,  as  the  parapet  he  passed, 
And  they  a  greeting  toward  him  cast, 
Once  more  he  felt  a  boy  again  ; 
As  though  beneath  the  harvest  wain 
He  was  asleep,  by  that  old  stream, 
And  all  these  things  were  but  a  dream,  — 
The  King,  the  squire,  the  hurrying  ride 
Unto  the  lonely  quagmire  side  ; 


THE  MAN  BORN  TO  BE  KING.  125 

The  sudden  pain,  the  deadly  swoon, 
The  feverish  life  from  noon  to  noon ; 
The  tending  of  the  kind  old  man, 
The  black  and  white  Dominican, 
The  hour  before  the  Abbot's  throne, 
The  poring  o'er  old  books  alone, 
In  summer  morn  ;  the  King  again, 
The  envious  greetings  of  strange  men, 
This  mighty  horse  and  rich  array, 
This  journey  on  an  unknown  way. 

Surely  he  thought  to  wake  from  it, 
And  once  more  by  the  wagon  sit, 
Blinking  upon  the  sunny  mill. 

But  not  for  either  good  or  ill 
Shall  he  see  one  of  all  those  days  ;' 
On  through  the  quivering  noontide  haze 
He  rode,  and  now  on  either  hand 
Heavy  with  fruit  the  trees  did  stand ; 
Nor  had  he  ridden  long,  ere  he 
The  red  towers  of  the  house  could  see 
Gray  on  the  wind-beat  southern  side  : 
And  soon  the  gates  thrown  open  wide 
He  saw,  the  long-fixed  drawbridge  down, 
The  moat,  with  lilies  overgrown, 
Midst  which  the  gold-scaled  fishes  lay  : 
Such  peace  was  there  for  many  a  day. 

And  deep  within  the  archway's  shade 
The  warder  on  his  cloak  was  laid, 
Dozing,  one  hand  upon  a  harp. 
And  nigh  him  a  great  golden  carp 
Lay  stiff,  with  all  his  troubles  done, 
Drawn  from  the  moat  ere  yet  the  sun 
Was  high,  and  nigh  him  was  his  bane, 
An  angling-rod  of  Indian  cane. 

Now  hearing  Michael's  horse-hoofs  smite 
The  causeway,  shading  from  the  light 
His  eyes,  as  one  scarce  yet  awake, 
He  made  a  shift  his  spear  to  take, 
And,  eying  Michael's  badge  the  while, 
Rose  up,  and  with  a  lazy  smile 
Said,  "  Ho  !  fair  sir,  abide,  abide, 
And  show  why  hitherward  ye  ride 
Unto  my  lady's  royal  home." 
Said  Michael,  "  From  the  King  I  come, 
As  by  my  badge  ye  well  may  see ; 
And  letters  have  I  here  with  me 


126  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE, 

To  give  my  lord  the  seneschal. " 

"  Yea,"  said  the  man.     "  But  in  the  hall 
He  feasteth  now ;  what  haste  is  there  ? 
Certes  full  quickly  cometh  care  ; 
And  sure  I  am  he  will  not  read 
Thy  letters,  or  to  aught  give  heed 
Till  he  has  played  out  all  the  play, 
And  every  guest  has  gone  away ; 
So  thou,  O  damoiseau,  must  wait ; 
Tie  up  thine  horse  anigh  the  gate, 
And  sit  with  me,  and  thou  shalt  hear 
The  Kaiser  lieth  on  his  bier. 
Thou  laughest,  —  hast  thou  never  heard 
Of  this  same  valorous  Red  Beard, 
And  how  he  died  ?  well,  I  can  sing 
Of  many  another  dainty  thing, 
Thou  wilt  not  a  long  while  forget, 
The  budget  is  not  empty  yet 
Peter !  I  think  thou  mockest  me, 
But  thou  art  young  and  fair,  perdie, 
I  wish  thee  luck,  — well,  thou  may'st  go 
And  feel  the  afternoon  wind  blow 
Within  Dame  Bertha's  pleasance  here  ; 
She  who  was  held  so  lief  and  dear, 
All  this  was  built  but  for  her  sake, 
Who  made  the  hearts  of  men  to  ache ; 
And  dying  full  of  years  and  shame 
Yet  left  an  unforgotten  name,  — 
God  rest  her  soul !  " 

Michael  the  while 

Hearkened  his  talking  with  a  smile, 
Then  said,  "  O  friend,  I  think  to  hear 
Both  '  The  King  lieth  on  his  bier ' 
And  many  another  song  of  thee, 
Ere  I  depart ;  but  now  show  me 
The  pleasance  of  the  ancient  queen, 
For  these  red  towers  above  the  green 
Show  like  the  gates  of  paradise, 
That  surely  somewhere  through  them  lies." 

Then  said  the  warder,  ' '  That  may  be 
If  thou  know'st  what  may  come  to  thee.  — 
When  past  the  drawbridge  thou  hast  gone, 
Upon  the  left  three  steps  of  stone 
Lead  to  a  path  beneath  the  wall 
Of  the  great  court,  that  folk  now  call 
The  falconer's  path,  nor  canst  thou  miss 


THE  MAN  BORN  TO  BE  KING.  127 

Going  thereby,  to  find  the  bliss 

Thou  look'st  for,  since  the  path  ends  there, 

And  through  a  wicket  gilded  fair 

The  garden  lies  where  thou  wouldst  be  : 

Nor  will  I  fail  to  come  to  thee 

Whene'er  my  lord  the  seneschal 

Shall  pass  well-fed  from  out  the  hall." 

Then  Michael,  thanking  him,  passed  on, 
And  soon  the  gilded  wicket  won, 
And  entered  that  pleasance  sweet, 
And  wandered  there  with  wary  feet 
And  open  mouth,  as  though  he  deemed 
That  in  some  lovely  dream  he  dreamed, 
And  feared  to  wake  to  common  day, 
So  fair  was  all ;  and  e'en  decay 
Brought  there  but  pensive  loveliness, 
Where  autumn  those  old  walls  did  bless 
With  wealth  of  fruit,  and  through  the  grass 
Unscared  the  spring-born  thrush  did  pass, 
Who  yet  knew  naught  of  winter-tide. 

So  wandering,  to  a  fountain's  side 
He  came,  and  o'er  the  basin  hung, 
Watching  the  fishes,  as  he  sung 
Some  song  remembered  from  of  old, 
Ere  yet  the  miller  won  that  gold. 
But  soon  made  drowsy  with  his  ride, 
And  the  warm,  hazy  autumn-tide, 
And  many  a  musical  sweet  sound, 
He  cast  him  down  upon  the  ground, 
And  watched  the  glittering  water  leap, 
Still  singing  low,  nor  thought  to  sleep. 

But  scarce  three  minutes  had  gone  by 
Before,  as  if  in  mockery, 
The  starling  chattered  o'er  his  head, 
And  nothing  he  remembered, 
Nor  dreamed  of  aught  that  he  had  seen. 

Meanwhile  unto  that  garden  green 
Had  come  the  Princess,  and  with  her 
A  maiden  that  she  held  right  dear, 
Who  knew  the  inmost  of  her  mind. 
Now  those  twain,  as  the  scented  wind 
Played  with  their  raiment  or  their  hair, 
Had  late  been  running  here  and  there, 
Chasing  each  other  merrily, 
As  maids  do,  thinking  no  one  by ; 


128  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

But  now,  well  wearied  therewithal, 
Had  let  their  gathered  garments  fall 
About  their  feet,  and  slowly  went : 
And  through  the  leaves  a  murmur  sent, 
As  of  two  happy  doves  that  sing 
The  soft  returning  of  the  spring. 

Now  of  these  twain  the  Princess  spoke 
The  less,  but  into  laughter  broke 
Not  seldom,  and  would  redden  oft, 
As  on  her  lips  her  fingers  soft 
She  laid,  as  still  the  other  maid, 
Half  grave,  half  smiling,  follies  said. 

So  in  their  walk  they  drew  anigh 
That  fountain  in  the  'midst,  whereby 
Lay  Michael  sleeping,  dreaming  naught 
Of  such  fair  things  so  nigh  him  brought ; 
They,  when  the  fountain  shaft  was  passed, 
Beheld  him  on  the  ground  downcast, 
And  stopped  at  first,  until  the  maid 
Stepped  lightly  forward  to  the  shade, 
And  when  she  had  gazed  there  awhile 
Came  running  back  again,  a  smile 
Parting  her  lips,  and  her  bright  eyes 
Afire  with  many  fantasies  ; 
And  ere  the  Lady  Cecily 

Could  speak  a  word,  "  Hush !  hush ! "  said  she ; 
"  Did  I  not  say  that  he  would  come 
To  woo  thee  in  tliy  peaceful  home 
Before  thy  father  brought  him  here  ? 
Come,  and  behold  him,  have  no  fear ! 
The  great  bell  would  not  wake  him  now, 
Right  in  his  ears." 

"  Nay,  what  dost  thou?" 
The  Princess  said  ;  "  let  us  go  hence ; 
Thou  know'st  I  give  obedience 
To  what  my  father  bids  ;  but  I 
A  maid  full  fain  would  live  and  die, 
Since  I  am  born  to  be  a  queen. " 

"Yea,  yea,  for  such  as  thou  hast  seen, 
That  may  be  well,"  the  other  said. 
*'  But  come  now,  come  ;  for  by  my  head 
This  one  must  be  from  Paradise  ; 
Come  swiftly  then,  if  thou  art  wise 
Ere  aught  can  snatch  him  back  again." 

She  caught  her  hand,  and  not  in  vain 
She  prayed  ;  for  now  some  kindly  thought 


THE  MAN  BORN  TO  BE  KING.  129 

To  Cecily's  brow  fair  color  brought, 
And  quickly  'gan  her  heart  to  beat 
As  Love  drew  near  those  eyes  to  greet, 
Who  knew  him  not  till  that  sweet  hour. 

So  over  the  fair,  pink-edged  flower, 
Softly  she  stepped  ;  but  when  she  came 
Anigh  the  sleeper,  lovely  shame 
Cast  a  soft  mist  before  her  eyes 
Full  filled  of  many  fantasies. 
But  when  she  saw  him  lying  there 
She  smiled  to  see  her  mate  so  fair ; 
And  in  her  heart  did  Love  begin 
To  tell  his  tale,  nor  thought  she  sin 
To  gaze  on  him  that  was  her  own, 
Not  doubting  he  was  come  alone 
To  woo  her,  whom  midst  arms  and  gold 
She  deemed  she  should  at  first  behold  ; 
And  with  that  thought  love  grew  again 
Until  departing  was  a  pain, 
Though  fear  grew  with  that  growing  love, 
And  with  her  lingering  footsteps  strove 
As  from  the  place  she  turned  to  go, 
Sighing  and  murmuring  words  full  low. 
But  as  her  raiment's  hem  she  raised, 
And  for  her  merry  fellow  gazed 
Shamefaced  and  changed,  she  met  her  eyes 
Turned  grave  and  sad  with  ill  surprise  ; 
Who  while  the  princess  mazed  did  stand 
Had  drawn  from  Michael's  loosened  band 
The  King's  scroll,  which  she  held  out  now 
To  Cecily,  and  whispered  low, 
"  Read,  and  do  quickly  what  thou  wilt,  — 
Sad,  sad  !  such  fair  life  to  be  spilt : 
Come  further  first." 

With  that  they  stepped 
A  pace  or  two  from  where  he  slept, 
And  then  she  read, 

' '  Lord  Seneschal, 

On  thee  and  thine  may  all  good  fall ; 
Greeting  hereby  the  King  sendeth, 
And  biddeth  thee  to  put  to  death 
His  enemy  who  beareth  this  ; 
And  as  thou  lovest  life  and  bliss, 
And  all  thy  goods  thou  boldest  dear, 
Set  thou  his  head  upon  a  spear 
9 


130  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

A  good  half-furlong  from  the  gate, 
Our  coming  hitherward  to  wait,  — 
So  perish  the  King's  enemies !  " 

She  read,  and  scarcely  had  her  eyes 
Seen  clear  her  father's  name  and  seal, 
Ere  all  love's  power  her  heart  did  feel, 
That  drew  her  back  in  spite  of  shame, 
To  him  who  was  not  e'en  a  name 
Unto  her  a  short  hour  agone. 
Panting  she  said,  "  Wait  thou  alone 
Beside  him,  watch  him  carefully 
And  let  him  sleep  if  none  draw  nigh  : 
If  of  himself  he  waketh,  then 
Hide  him  until  I  come  again, 
When  thou  hast  told  him  of  the  snare,  — 
If  thou  betray est  me,  beware  ! 
For  death  shall  be  the  least  of  all 
The  ills  that  on  thine  head  shall  fall.  — 
What  say  I  ?  —  thou  art  dear  to  me, 
And  doubly  dear  now  shalt  thou  be, 
Thou  shalt  have  power  and  majesty, 
And  be  more  queen  in  all  than  I.  — 
Few  words  are  best,  be  wise,  be  wise  !  " 

Withal  she  turned  about  her  eyes 
Once  more,  and  swiftly  as  a  man 
Betwixt  the  garden  trees  she  ran, 
Until,  her  own  bower  reached  at  last, 
She  made  good  haste,  and  quickly  passed 
Unto  her  secret  treasury. 
There,  hurrying  since  the  time  was  nigh 
For  folk  to  come  from  meat,  she  took 
From  'twixt  the  leaves  of  a  great  book 
A  royal  scroll,  signed,  sealed,  but  blank, 
Then,  with  a  hand  that  never  shrank 
Or  trembled,  she  the  scroll  did  fill 
With  these  words,  writ  with  clerkly  skill,  — • 
"  Unto  the  Seneschal,  Sir  Rafe, 
Who  holdeth  our  fair  castle  safe, 
Greeting  and  health  !     O  well-beloved, 
Know  that  at  this  time  we  are  moved 
To  wed  our  daughter,  so  we  send 
Him  who  bears  this,  our  perfect  friend, 
To  be  her  bridegroom  ;  so  do  thou 
Ask  naught  of  him,  since  well  we  know 
His  race  and  great  nobility, 


THE  MAN  BORN  TO  BE  KING.  131 

And  how  he  is  most  fit  to  be 
Our  son  ;  therefore  make  no  delay, 
But  wed  the  twain  upon  the  day 
Thou  readest  this  :  and  see  that  all 
Take  oath  to  him,  whate'er  shall  fall 
To  do  his  bidding  as  our  heir  ; 
So  doing  still  be  lief  and  dear 
As  I  have  held  thee  yet  to  be." 
She  cast  the  pen  down  hastily 
At  that  last  letter,  for  she  heard 
How  even  now  the  people  stirred 
Within  the  hall :  nor  dared  she  think 
What  bitter  potion  she  must  drink 
If  now  she  failed,  so  falsely  bold 
That  life  or  death  did  she  infold 
Within  its  cover,  making  shift 
To  seal  it  with  her  father's  gift, 
A  signet  of  carnelian. 

Then  swiftly  down  the  stairs  she  ran 
And  reached  the  garden ;  but  her  fears 
Brought  shouts  and  thunder  to  her  ears, 
That  were  but  lazy  words  of  men 
Full-fed,  far  off;  nay,  even  when 
Her  limbs  caught  up  her  flying  gown 
The  noise  seemed  loud  enough  to  drown 
The  twitter  of  the  autumn  birds, 
And  her  own  muttered  breathless  words 
That  to  her  heart  seemed  loud  indeed. 

Yet  therewithal  she  made  good  speed 
And  reached  the  fountain  seen  of  none, 
Where  yet  abode  her  friend  alone, 
Watching  the  sleeper,  who  just  now 
Turned  in  his  sleep  and  muttered  low. 
Therewith  fair  Agnes  saying  naught 
From  out  her  hand  the  letter  caught ; 
And  while  she  leaned  against  the  stone 
Stole  up  to  Michael's  side  alone, 
And  with  a  cool,  unshrinking  hand 
Thrust  the  new  scroll  deep  in  his  band, 
And  tunied  about  unto  her  friend  ; 
Who,  having  come  unto  the  end 
Of  all  her  courage,  trembled  there 
With  face  upturned  for  fresher  air, 
And  parted  lips  grown  gray  and  pale, 
And  limbs  that  now  began  to  fail, 


132  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And  hands  wherefrom  all  strength  had  gone, 
Scarce  fresher  than  the  blue-veined  stone 
That  quivering  still  she  strove  to  clutch. 

But  when  she  felt  her  lady's  touch, 
Feebly  she  said,  "  Go  !  let  me  die 
And  end  this  sudden  misery 
That  in  such  wise  has  wrapped  my  life, 
I  am  too  weak  for  such  a  strife, 
So  sick  I  am  with  shame  and  fear  ; 
Would  thou  hadst  never  brought  me  here  ! " 

But  Agnes  took  her  hand  and  said, 
"  Nay,  Queen,  and  must  we  three  be  dead 
Because  thou  fearest  ?    All  is  safe 
If  boldly  thou  wilt  face  Sir  Rafe." 

So  saying,  did  she  draw  her  hence, 
Past  tree  and  bower,  and  high  pleached  fence 
Unto  the  garden's  further  end, 
And  left  her  there,  and  back  did  wend, 
And  from  the  house  made  haste  to  get 
A  gilded  maund  wherein  she  set 
A  flask  of  ancient  island  wine, 
Ripe  fruits  and  wheaten  manchets  fine, 
And  many  such  a  delicate 
As  goddesses  in  old  time  ate, 
Ere  Helen  was  a  Trojan  queen  ; 
So  passing  through  the  garden  green 
She  cast  her  eager  eyes  again 
Upon  the  spot  where  he  had  lain, 
But  found  it  empty,  so  sped  on 
Till  she  at  last  the  place  had  won 
Where  Cecily  lay  weak  and  white 
Within  that  fair  bower  of  delight. 

Her  straight  she  made  to  eat  and  drink, 
And  said,  "  See  now  thou  dost  not  shrink 
From  this  thy  deed  ;  let  love  slay  fear 
Now,  when  thy  life  shall  grow  so  dear, 
Each  minute  should  seem  loss  to  thee 
If  thou  for  thy  felicity 
Couldst  stay  to  count  them  ;  for  I  say, 
This  day  shall  be  thy  happy  day." 

Therewith  she  smiled  to  see  the  wine 
Embraced  by  her  fingers  fine  ; 
And  her  sweet  face  grow  bright  again 
With  sudden  pleasure  after  pain. 

Again  she  spoke,  "  What  is  this  word 
That,  dreaming,  I  perchance  have  heard, 


THE  MAN  BORN  TO  BE  KING.  133 

But  certainly  remember  well  ; 
That  some  old  soothsayer  did  tell 
Strange  things  unto  my  lord,  the  King, 
That  on  thy  hand  the  spousal  ring 
No  Kaiser's  son,  no  King  should  set, 
But  one  a  peasant  did  beget,  — 
What  say'st  thou  ?  " 

But  the  Queen  flushed  red  ; 
"  Such  fables  I  have  heard,"  she  said  ; 
"  And  thou  —  is  it  such  scath  to  me, 
The  bride  of  such  a  man  to  be  ?  " 

"  Nay,"  said  she,  "  God  will  have  him  King  ; 
How  shall  we  do  a  better  thing 
With  this  or  that  one  than  He  can  ? 
God's  friend  must  be  a  goodly  man." 

But  with  that  word  she  heard  the  sound 
Of  folk  who  through  the  mazes  wound 
Bearing  the  message  ;  then  she  said, 
"  Be  strong,  pluck  up  thine  hardihead, 
Speak  little,  so  shall  all  be  well, 
For  now  our  own  tale  will  they  tell. " 

And  even  as  she  spoke  they  came, 
And  all  the  green  place  was  aflame 
With  golden  raiment  of  the  lords  ; 
While  Cecily,  noting  not  their  words, 
Rose  up  to  go  ;  and  for  her  part 
By  this  had  fate  so  steeled  her  heart, 
Scarce  otherwise  she  seemed,  than  when 
She  passed  before  the  eyes  of  men 
At  tourney  or  high  festival. 
But  when  they  now  had  reached  the  hall, 
And  up  its  very  steps  they  went, 
Her  head  a  little  down  she  bent  ; 
Nor  raised  it  till  the  dais  was  gained 
For  fear  that  love  some  monster  feigned 
To  be  a  god,  and  she  should  be 
Smit  by  her  own  bolt  wretchedly. 
But  at  the  rustling,  crowded  dais 
She  gathered  heart  her  eyes  to  raise, 
And  there  beheld  her  love,  indeed, 
Clad  in  her  father's  serving  weed, 
But  proud,  and  flushed,  and  calm  withal, 
Fearless  of  aught  that  might  befall, 
Nor  too  astonied,  for  he  thought,  — 
"  From  point  to  point  my  life  is  brought 


134  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Through  wonders  till  it  comes  to  this  ; 

And  trouble  cometh  after  bliss, 

And  I  will  bear  all  as  I  may, 

And  ever,  as  day  passeth  day, 

My  life  will  hammer  from  the  twain, 

Forging  a  long-enduring  chain. " 

But  midst  these  thoughts  their  young  eyes  met, 
And  every  word  did  he  forget 
Wherewith  men  name  unhappiness, 
As  read  again  those  words  did  bless 
With  double  blessings  his  glad  ears. 
And  if  she  trembled  with  her  fears, 
And  if  with  doubt,  and  love,  and  shame, 
The  rosy  color  went  and  came 
In  her  sweet  cheeks  and  smooth  bright  brow, 
Little  did  folk  think  of  it  now, 
But  as  of  maiden  modesty, 
Shamefaced  to  see  the  bridegroom  nigh. 

And  now  when  Rafe  the  Seneschal 
Had  read  the  message  down  the  Hall, 
And  turned  to  her,  quite  calm  again 
Her  face  had  grown,  and  with  no  pain 
She  raised  her  serious  eyes  to  his, 
Grown  soft  and  pensive  with  his  bliss, 
And  said : 

"  Prince,  thou  art  welcome  here, 
Where  all  my  father  loves  is  dear, 
And  full  trust  do  I  put  in  thee, 
For  that  so  great  nobility 
He  knoweth  in  .thee  ;  be  as  kind 
As  I  would  be  to  thee,  and  find 
A  happy  life  from  day  to  day, 
Till  all  our  days  are  passed  away." 

What  more  than  found  the  bystanders 
He  found  within  this  speech  of  hers, 
I  know  not ;  some  faint  quivering 
In  the  last  words  ;  some  little  thing 
That  checked  the  cold  words'  even  flow. 
But  yet  they  set  his  heart  aglow, 
And  he  in  turn  said  eagerly  :  — 

' '  Surely  I  count  it  naught  to  die 
For  him  who  brought  me  unto  this  ; 
For  thee,  who  givest  me  this  bliss  ; 
Yea,  even  dost  me  such  a  grace 
To  look  with  kind  eyes  in  my  face, 
And  send  sweet  music  to  my  ears." 


THE  MAN  BORN  TO  BE  KING.  135 

But  at  his  words  she,  mazed  with  tears, 
Seemed  faint,  and  failing  quickly,  when 
Above  the  low  hum  of  the  men 
Uprose  the  sweet  bells'  sudden  clang, 
As  men  unto  the  chapel  rang  ; 
While  just  outside  the  singing  folk 
Into  most  heavenly  carols  broke. 
And  going  softly  up  the  hall 
Boys  bore  aloft  the  verges  tall 
Before  the  bishop's  gold-clad  head. 

Then  forth  his  bride  young  Michael  led, 
And  naught  to  him  seemed  good  or  bad 
Except  the  lovely  hand  he  had  ; 
But  she  the  while  was  murmuring  low, 
"  If  he  could  know,  if  he  could  know, 
What  love,  what  love,  his  love  should  be ! " 

But  while  mid  mirth  and  minstrelsy 
The  ancient  Castle  of  the  Rose 
Such  pageant  to  the  autumn  shows 
The  King  sits  ill  at  ease  at  home, 
For  in  these  days  the  news  is  come 
That  he  who  in  his  line  should  wed 
Lies  in  his  own  town  stark  and  dead, 
Slain  in  a  tumult  in  the  street. 

Brooding  on  this  he  deemed  it  meet, 
Since  nigh  the  day  was  come  when  she 
Her  bridegroom's  visage  looked  to  see, 
To  hold  the  settled  day  with  her, 
And  bid  her  at  the  least  to  wear 
Dull  mourning  guise  for  gold  and  white. 
So  on  another  morning  bright, 
When  the  whole  promised  month  was  past, 
He  drew  anigh  the  place  at  last 
Where  Michael's  dead  head,  looking  down 
Upon  the  highway  with  a  frown, 
He  doubted  not  at  last  to  see. 
So  'twixt  the  fruitful  greenery 
He  rode,  scarce  touched  by  care  the  while, 
Humming  a  roundel  with  a  smile. 

Withal,  ere  yet  he  drew  anigh, 
He  heard  their  watch-horn  sound  from  high, 
Nor  wondered,  for  their  wont  was  so, 
And  well  his  -banner  they  might  know 
Amidst  the  stubble-lands  afar  : 
But  now  a  distant  point  of  war 


136  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

He  seemed  to  hear,  and  bade  draw  rein, 
But  listening  cried,  "  Push  on  again! 
They  do  but  send  forth  minstrelsy 
Because  my  daughter  thinks  to  see 
The  man  who  lieth  on  his  bier. " 
So  on  they  passed,  till  sharp  and  clear 
They  heard  the  pipe  and  shrill  fife  sound ; 
And  restlessly  the  King  glanced  round 
To  see  that  he  had  striven  for, 
The  crushing  of  that  sage's  lore, 
The  last  confusion  of  that  fate. 

But  drawn  still  nigher  to  the  gate 
They  turned  a  sharp  bend  of  the  road, 
And  saw  the  pageant  that  abode 
The  solemn  coming  of  the  King. 

For  first  on  each  side,  maids  did  sing, 
Dressed  in  gold  raiment ;  then  there  came 
The  minstrels  in  their  coats  of  flame ; 
And  then  the  many-colored  lords, 
The  knights'  spears,  and  the  swordmen's  swords, 
Backed  by  the  glittering  wood  of  bills. 

So  now,  presaging  many  ills, 
The  King  drew  rein,  yet  none  the  less 
He  shrank  not  from  his  hardiness, 
But  thought,  "  Well,  at  the  worst  I  die, 
And  yet  perchance  long  life  may  lie 
Before  me  —  I  will  hold  my  peace  ; 
The  dumb  man's  borders  still  increase." 

But  as  he  strengthened  thus  his  heart 
He  saw  the  crowd  before  him  part, 
And  down  the  long  melodious  lane, 
Hand  locked  in  hand  there  passed  the  twain, 
As  fair  as  any  earth  has  found, 
Clad  as  kings'  children  are,  and  crowned. 
Behind  them  went  the  chiefest  lords, 
And  two  old  knights  with  sheathed  swords 
The  banners  of  the  kingdom  bore. 

But  now  the  King  had  pondered  sore, 
By  when  they  reached  him,  though,  indeed, 
The  time  was  short  unto  his  need, 
Betwixt  his  heart's  first  startled  pang 
And  those  old  banner-bearers'  clang 
Anigh  his  saddle-bow :  but  he 
Across  their  heads  scowled  heavily, 
Not  saying  aught  awhile  :  at  last, 


THE  MAN  BORN  TO  BE  KING.  137 

Ere  any  glance  at  them  he  cast, 

He  said,  ' '  Whence  come  ye  ?  what  are  ye  ? 

What  play  is  this  ye  play  to  me  ?  " 

None  answered,  —  Cecily,  faint  and  white, 
The  rather  Michael's  hand  clutched  tight, 
And  seemed  to  speak,  but  not  one  word 
The  nearest  to  her  could  have  heard. 
Then  the  King  spoke  again,  —  "  Sir  Rafe, 
Meseems  this  youngling  came  here  safe 
A  week  agone  ?  " 

"Yea,  sir,"  he  said; 
"  Therefore  the  twain  I  straight  did  wed, 
E'en  as  thy  letters  bound  me  to. " 
"  And  thus  thou  diddest  well  to  do," 
The  King  said.    "  Tell  me  on  what  day 
Her  old  life  she  did  put  away. " 

"  Sire,  the  eleventh  day  this  is 
Since  that  they  gained  their  earthly  bliss," 
Quoth  old  Sir  Rafe.     The  King  said  naught, 
But  with  his  head  bowed  down  in  thought, 
Stood  a  long  while  ;  but  at  the  last 
Upward  a  smiling,  face  he  cast, 
And  cried  aloud  above  the  folk  : 
"  Shout  for  the  joining  of  the  yoke 
Betwixt  these  twain  !  and  thou,  fair  lord, 
Who  dost  so  well  my  every  word, 
Nor  makest  doubt  of  anything, 
Wear  thou  the  collar  of  thy  King ; 
And  a  duke's  banner,  cut  foursquare, 
Henceforth  shall  men  before  thee  bear 
In  tourney  and  in  stricken  field. 

"  But  this  mine  heir  shall  bear  my  shield, 
Carry  my  banner,  wear  my  crown, 
Ride  equal  with  me  through  my  town, 
Sit  on  the  same  step  of  the  throne  ; 
In  nothing  will  I  reign  alone  ; 
Nor  be  ye  with  him  miscontent, 
For  that  with  little  ornament 
Of  gold  and  folk  to  you  he  came ; 
For  he  is  of  an  ancient  name 
That  needeth  not  the  clink  of  gold  — 
The  ancientest  the  world  doth  hold ; 
For  in  the  fertile  Asian  land, 
Where  great  Damascus  now  doth  stand, 
Ages  agone  Kis  line  was  born, 
Ere  yet  men  knew  the  gift  of  corn  ; 


138  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And  there,  anigh  to  Paradise, 
His  ancestors  grew  stout  and  wise  ; 
And  certes  he  from  Asia  bore 
No  little  of  their  piercing  lore. 

' '  Look  then  to  have  great  happiness, 
For  every  wrong  shall  he  redress. " 

Then  did  the  people's  shouting  drown 
His  clatter  as  he  leapt  adown, 
And,  taking  in  each  hand  a  hand 
Of  the  two  lovers,  now  did  stand 
Betwixt  them  on  the  flower-strewn  way, 
And  to  himself  meanwhile  'gan  say,  — 

"  How  many  an  hour  might  I  have  been 
Right  merry  in  the  gardens  green  ; 
How  many  a  glorious  day  had  I 
Made  happy  with  some  victory  ; 
What  noble  deeds  I  might  have  done, 
What  bright  renown  my  deeds  have  won  ; 
What  blessings  would  have  made  me  glad  ; 
What  little  burdens  had  I  had  ;    . 
What  calmness  in  the  hope  of  praise ; 
What  joy  of  well-accomplished  days, 
If  I  had  let  these  things  alone ; 
Nor  sought  to  sit  upon  my  throne 
Like  God  between  the  cherubim. 
But  now,  —  but  now,  my  days  wax  dim, 
And  all  this  fairness  have  I  tost 
Unto  the  winds,  and  all  have  lost 
For  naught,  for  naught !  yet  will  I  strive 
My  little  end  of  life  to  live  ; 
Nor  will  I  look  behind  me  more, 
Nor  forward  to  the  doubtful  shore." 

With  that  he  made  the  sign  to  turn, 
And  straight  the  autumn  air  did  burn 
With  many  a  point  of  steel  and  gold  ; 
And  through  the  trees  the  carol  rolled 
Once  more,  until  the  autumn  thrush 
Far  off  'gan  twittering  on  his  bush, 
Made  mindful  of  the  long-lived  spring. 

So  mid  sweet  song  and  laboring, 
And  shouts  amid  the  apple-grove, 
And  soft  caressing  of  his  love, 


MARCH.  139 


Began  the  new  King  Michael's  reign. 
Nor  will  the  poor  folk  see  again 
A  king  like  him  on  any  throne, 
Or  such  good  deeds  to  all  men  done  : 
For  then,  as  saith  the  chronicle, 
It  was  the  time,  as  all  men  tell, 
When  scarce  a  man  would  stop  to  gaze 
At  gold  crowns  hung  above  the  ways. 


HE  ended  ;  and  midst  those  who  heard  were  some 
Who,  midst  his  tale,  half  dreamed  they  were  at  home, 
Round  the  great  fire  upon  the  winter  night ; 
And,  with  the  memory  of  the  fresh  delight 
W'herewith  they  first  had  heard  that  story  told, 
Forgetting  not  they  were  grown  weak  and  old, 
Yet  felt  as  if  they  had  at  least  grown  gray 
Within  the  land  left  for  so  many  a  day. 
He,  with  the  gestures  they  were  wont  to  see, 
So  told  his  tale,  so  strange  with  eld  was  he, 
Just  so  he  stammered,  and  in  just  such  wise 
He  sighed,  beginning  fresh,  as  their  young  eyes, 
Their  ears,  in  happy  days  passed  long  ago, 
Had  ever  noted  other  old  men  do, 
When  they,  full  filled  with  their  quick-coming  joys, 
Would  gaze  on  old  folk  as  on  carven  toys. 

But  he  being  silent,  silently  awhile 
They  mused  on  these  things,  masking  with  a  smile 
The  vain  regrets  that  in  their  hearts  arose, 
The  while  with  eager  talk  the  young  folk  chose 
The  parts  that  pleased  them  ;  but  their  elder  hosts, 
Falling  to  talk,  yet  noted  well  the  ghosts 
Of  old  desires  within  their  wasted  eyes, 
Till  one  by  one  the  fresh-stirred  memories, 
So  bitter-sweet,  flickered  and  died  away  ; 
And  as  old  men  may  do,  whose  hopes  grew  gray 
Before  their  beards,  they  made  a  little  mirth 
Until  the  great  moon  rose  upon  the  earth. 


140  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 


APRIL. 


OFAIR  midspring,  besung  so  oft  and  oft, 
How  can  I  praise  thy  loveliness  enow  ? 
Thy  sun  that  burns  not,  and  thy  breezes  soft 
That  o'er  the  blossoms  of  the  orchard  blow, 
The  thousand  things  that  'neath  the  young  leaves  grow, 
The  hopes  and  chances  of  the  growing  year, 
Winter  forgotten  long,  and  summer  near. 

When  summer  brings  the  lily  and  the  rose, 
She  brings  us  fear ;  her  very  death  she  brings 
Hid  in  her  anxious  heart,  the  forge  of  woes  ; 
And,  dull  with  fear,  no  more  the  mavis  sings. 
But  thou !  thou  diest  not,  but  thy  fresh  life  clings 
About  the  fainting  autumn's  sweet  decay, 
When  in  the  earth  the  hopeful  seed  they  lay. 

Ah  !  life  of  all  the  year,  why  yet  do  I, 
Amid  thy  snowy  blossoms'  fragrant  drift, 
Still  long  for  that  which  never  draweth  nigh, 
Striving  my  pleasure  from  my  pain  to  sift, 
Some  weight  from  off  my  fluttering  mirth  to  lift? 
—  Now,  when  far  bells  are  ringing,  "  Come  again, 
Come  back,  past  years  !  why  will  ye  pass  in  vain  ?  " 


AND  now  the  watery  April  sun  lit  up 
Upon  the  fair  board  golden  ewer  and  cup, 
And  over  the  bright  silken  tapestry 
The  fresh  young  boughs  were  gladdening  every  eye, 
And  round  the  board  old  faces  you  might  see 
Amidst  the  blossoms  and  their  greenery. 

So  when  the  flutes  were  silent,  and  the  birds, 
Rejoicing  in  their  flood  of  unknown  words, 
Were  heard  again,  a  silken-fastened  book 


APRIL.  141 

A  certain  elder  from  his  raiment  took, 

And  said,  "  O  friends,  few  words  are  best  to-day, 

And  no  new  thing  I  bring  you  ;  yet  ye  may 

Be  pleased  to  hear  an  ancient  tale  again, 

That,  told  so  long  ago,  doth  yet  remain 

Fresh  e'en  'mongst  us,  far  from  the  Argive  land  : 

Which  tale  this  book,  writ  wholly  by  mine  hand, 

Holds  gathered  up  as  I  have  heard  it  told. 

"  Surely  I  fear  me,  midst  the  ancient  gold 
Base  metal  ye  will  light  on  here  and  there, 
Though  I  have  noted  everything  with  care, 
And  with  good-will  have  set  down  nothing  new  : 
Nor  holds  the  land  another  book  for  you 
That  has  the  tale  in  full  with  naught  beside, 
So  unto  me  let  your  good  word  betide  ; 
Though,  take  it  as  ye  may,  no  small  delight 
I  had,  herein  this  well-loved  tale  to  write." 


THE   DOOM  OF  KING  ACRISIUS. 


ARGUMENT. 

ACRISIUS,  king  of  Argos,  being  warned  by  an  oracle  that  the  son  of  his 
daughter  Danae  should  slay  him,  shut  her  up  in  a  brazen  tower  built 
for  that  end  beside  the  sea ;  there,  though  no  man  could  come  nigh 
her,  she  nevertheless  bore  a  son  to  Jove,  and  she  and  her  new-born 
son,  set  adrift  on  the  sea,  came  to  the  island  of  Seriphos.  Thence  her 
son,  grown  to  manhood,  set  out  to  win  the  Gorgon's  Head,  and  accom 
plished  that  end  by  the  help  of  Minerva:  and  afterwards  rescued 
Andromeda,  daughter  of  Cepheus,  from  a  terrible  doom,  and  wedded 
her.  Coming  back  to  Seriphos  he  took  his  mother  thence,  and  made 
for  Argos,  but  by  stress  of  weather  came  to  Thessaly,  and  there,  at 
Larissa,  accomplished  the  prophecy,  by  unwittingly  slaying  Acrisius. 
In  the  end  he  founded  the  city  of  Mycenae,  and  died  there. 

NOW  of  the  King  Acrisius  shall  ye  hear, 
Who,  thinking  he  could  free  his  life  from  fear, 
Did  that  which  brought  but  death  on  him  at  last. 

In  Argos  did  he  reign  in  days  long  past, 
And  had  one  daughter,  fair  as  man  could  see, 
Who  in  old  tales  is  called  Danae  ; 
But  as  she  grew  up  fairer  day  by  day, 
A  wandering  oracle  to  him  did  say, 
That  whatso  else  might  happen,  soon  or  late 
He  should  be  taken  in  the  toils  of  fate, 
And  by  the  fruit  of  his  own  daughter's  womb 
Be  slain  at  last,  and  set  within  his  tomb  ; 
And  therefore  heavy  sorrow  on  him  fell, 
That  she  he  thought  to  love  so  passing  well 
Must  henceforth  be  his  deadliest  dread  and  woe. 

Long  time  he  pondered  what  was  best  to  do  ; 
And  whiles  he  thought  that  he  would  send  her  forth 
To  wed  some  king  far  in  the  snowy  north, 
And  whiles  that  by  great  gifts  of  goods  and  gold 
Some  lying  prophet  might  be  bought  and  sold 
To  swear  his  daughter  he  must  sacrifice, 
If  he  would  yet  find  favor  in  the  eyes 
Of  the  dread  gods  who  govern  everything  ; 
And  sometimes  seemed  it  better  to  the  King, 


THE  DOOM  OF  KING  ACRISIUS.          143 

That  he  might  'scape  the  shedding  of  her  blood 
By  leaving  her  in  some  far  lonely  wood, 
Wherein  the  Dryads  might  the  maiden  find, 
Or  beasts  might  slay  her,  following  but  their  kind. 

So  passed  his  anxious  days,  until  at  last, 
When  many  a  plot  through  his  vexed  brain  had  passed, 
He  lacked  the  heart  his  flesh  and  blood  to  slay, 
Yet  neither  would  he  she  should  go  away 
From  out  his  sight,  or  be  at  large  at  all ; 
Therefore  his  wisest  craftsmen  did  he  call, 
And  bade  them  make  for  him  a  tower  foursquare, 
Such  as  no  man  had  yet  seen  anywhere, 
For  therein  neither  stone  nor  wood  should  be, 
But  all  be  wrought  of  brass  most  cunningly. 

Now  thither  oft  would  maiden  Danae  stray, 
And  watch  its  strange  walls  growing  day  by  day, 
Because,  poor  soul !  she  knew  not  anything 
Of  these  forebodings  of  the  fearful  King, 
Nor  how  he  meted  out  for  her  this  doom, 
Therein  to  dwell  as  in  a  living  tomb. 
But  on  a  day,  she,  coming  there  alone, 
Found  it  all  finished  and  the  workmen  gone, 
And  no  one  nigh,  so  through  the  open  door 
She  entered,  and  went  up  from  floor  to  floor, 
And  through  its  chambers  wandered  without  dread  ; 
And,  entering  one,  she  found  therein  a  bed, 
Dight  daintily,  as  though  to  serve  a  queen  ; 
And  all  the  walls  adorned  with  hangings  green, 
Tables  and  benches  in  good  order  set, 
And  all  things  new,  by  no  one  used  as  yet. 

With  that  she  murmured,  "  When  again  I  see 
My  father,  will  I  bid  him  tell  to  me 
Who  shall  live  here  and  die  here,  for,  no  doubt, 
Whoever  enters  here  shall  ne'er  go  out  : 
Therefore  the  walls  are  made  so  high  and  great, 
Therefore  the  bolts  are  measureless  of  weight, 
The  windows  small,  barred,  turned  towards  the  sea, 
That  none  from  land  may  tell  who  here  may  be. 
No  doubt  some  man  the  King  my  father  fears 
Above  all  other  here  shall  pass  his  years. 
Alas,  poor  soul !  scarce  shall  he  see  the  sun, 
Of  care  to  know  when  the  hot  day  is  done, 
Or  ever  see  sweet  flowers  again,  or  grass, 
Or  take  much  nete  of  how  the  seasons  pass. 
Truly  we  folk  who  dwell  in  rest  and  ease 
But  lightly  think  of  such  abodes  as  these  ; 


144  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And  I,  who  live  wrapped  round  about  with  bliss, 
Shall  go  from  hence  and  soon  forget  all  this  : 
For  in  my  garden  many  a  sweet  flower  blooms, 
Wide  open  are  the  doors  of  all  my  rooms, 
And  lightly  folk  come  in  and  lightly  go ; 
And  I  have  known  as  yet  but  childish  woe. " 

Therewith  she  turned  about  to  leave  the  place, 
But  as  unto  the  door  she  set  her  face 
A  bitter  wailing  from  outside  she  heard, 
And  somewhat  therewithal  she  waxed  afeard, 
And  stopped  awhile  ;  yet  listening,  she  but  thought, 
' '  This  is  the  man  who  to  his  doom  is  brought 
By  weeping  friends,  who  come  to  see  the  last 
Of  that  dear  face  they  know  shall  soon  be  past 
From  them  forever. "     Then  she  'gan  to  go 
Adown  the  brazen  stairs  with  footsteps  slow. 

But  quick  the  shrieks  and  wailing  drew  anear, 
Till  in  her  ears  it  sounded  sharp  and  clear, 
And  then  she  said,  "  Alas  !  and  must  I  see 
These  weeping  faces  drawn  with  agony  ? 
Would  I  had  not  come  here  to-day  ! "     Withal 
She  started,  as  upon  her  ear  did  fall 
The  sound  of  shutting  of  the  outer  door, 
And  people  coming  up  from  floor  to  floor ; 
And  paler  then  she  grew,  but  moved  to  meet 
The  woful  sounds  and  slow-ascending  feet, 
Shrinking  with  pity  for  that  wretched  one 
Whose  life  of  joy  upon  that  day  was  done. 

Thus  down  the  stairs  with  saddened  heart  she  passed, 
And  to  a  lower  chamber  came  at  last ; 
But  as  she  went  beneath  the  archway  wide 
The  door  was  opened  from  the  other  side, 
And  in  poured  many  maidens,  whom  she  knew 
For  her  own  fair  companions,  leal  and  true  ; 
And  after  them  two  soldiers  armed  there  came, 
With  knitted  brows  and  eyes  downcast  for  shame. 

But  when  those  damsels  saw  her  standing  there, 
Anew  they  wept,  and  tore  their  unbound  hair ; 
But  midst  their  wailing,  still  no  word  they  said, 
Until  she  spoke  oppressed  with  sickening  dread  : 

"  O  tell  me  what  has  happened  to  me  then ! 
For  is  my  father  slain  of  outland  men  ? 
Or  have  the  gods  sent  death  upon  the  land  ? 
Or  is  it  mine  own  death  that  they  command  ? 
Alas,  alas !  but  slay  me  quick,  I  pray, 
Nor  let  me  linger  on  from  day  to  day, 


THE  DOOM  OF  KING  ACRISIUS.          145 

Maddened  with  fear  like  this,  that  sickens  me, 
And  makes  me  seem  the  half-dead  thing  ye  see. " 

Then,  like  a  man  constrained,  a  soldier  said 
These  cruel  words  unto  the  wretched  maid  : 
"  Lady,  lose  hope  and  fear  now  once  for  all ; 
Here  must  thou  dwell  betwixt  brass  wall  and  wall 
Until  the  gods  send  gentle  death  to  thee ; 
And  these  as  erst  thine  handmaidens  shall  be  : 
And  if  thou  askest  why  the  thing  is  so, 
Thus  the  King  wills  it,  for  a  while  ago 
An  oracle  foretold  that  thou  shouldst  live 
To  have  a  son,  who  bitter  death  should  give 
Unto  thy  father ;  so,  to  save  this  shame 
From  falling  on  the  glorious  Argive  name, 
He  deemed  it  well  that  thou  shouldst  live  indeed, 
But  yet  apart  from  man  thy  life  shouldst  lead. 
So  in  this  place  thy  days  must  pass  away, 
And  we  who  are  thy  guards,  from  day  to  day 
Will  bring  thee  everything  that  thou  may'st  need. 
But  pardon  us,  constrained  to  do  this  deed 
By  the  King's  will,  and  oaths  that  we  have  sworn 
Ere  to  this  life  of  sorrow  thou  wert  born." 

Therewith  they  turned  and  went,  and  soon  the  sound 
Of  shutting  doors  smote  like  a  deadly  wound 
Into  her  heart ;  and  yet  no  word  she  spoke, 
But  fell  as  one  beneath  a  deadly  stroke. 

Then  they  who  there  her  fellows  were  to  be 
Bore  up  her  body,  groaning  heavily, 
Unto  the  upper  chamber  where  that  day 
She  came  before,  and  on  the  bed  did  lay 
The  wretched  maid,  and  then  they  sat  around, 
With  heavy  heads  and  hair  that  swept  the  ground, 
To  weep  the  passing  of  those  happy  days 
When  many  an  one  their  happy  lot  would  praise. 
But  now  and  then,  when  bitterly  would  sting 
The  loss  of  some  nigh-reached  desired  thing, 
To  a  loud  wail  their  weeping  would  arise. 

Then  in  a  while  did  Danae  ope  her  eyes, 
And  to  her  aching  forehead  raised  her  hand ; 
But  when  she  saw  that  wan,  dishevelled  band, 
She  soon  remembered  this  was  no  ill  dream, 
But  that  all  things  were  e'en  as  they  did  seem, 
Then  she  arose,  but  soon  upon  the  bed 
Sank  down  again,  and  hid  her  troubled  head, 
And  moaned  and  moaned,  and  when  a  damsel  came 
10 


146  THE  EARTHL  Y  PARADISE. 

And  touched  her  hand,  and  called  her  by  her  name, 
She  knew  her  not,  but  turned  her  head  away  ; 
Nor  did  she  know  when  dark  night  followed  day. 

So  passed  by  many  a  day  in  mourning  sore, 
And  weariness  oppressed  her  evermore 
In  that  unhappy  prison-house  of  brass ; 
And  yet  a  little  the  first  sting  did  pass 
That  smote  her,  and  she  ate  and  drank  and  slept, 
And  fair  and  bright  her  body  Venus  kept, 
Yea,  such  a  grace  the  sea-born  goddess  fair 
Did  to  her,  that  the  ripples  of  her  hair 
Grew  brighter,  and  the  color  in  her  face 
And  lovely  lips  waned  not  in  that  sad  place  ; 
And  rounder  grew  her  limbs  from  day  to  day ; 
Yea,  as  upon  the  golden  bed  she  lay, 
You  would  have  thought  the  Queen  herself  had  come 
To  meet  some  love  far  from  her  golden  home. 

And  once  it  happed  at  the  first  hour  of  day 
In  golden  morn  upon  her  bed  she  lay, 
Newly  awakened  to  her  daily  woe, 
And  heard  the  rough  sea  beat  the  rocks  below, 
The  wheeling  sea-gull  screaming  on  the  wing, 
Sea-swallows  swift,  and  many  a  happy  thing, 
Till  bitterly  the  tears  ran  down  her  cheek, 
And,  stretching  forth  her  arms  and  fingers  weak, 
'Twixt  moans  these  piteous,  helpless  words  she  said :  - 
"O  Queen  Diana,  make  me  now  thy  maid, 
And  take  me  from  this  place  and  set  me  down 
By  the  boar-haunted  hills,  that  oak-woods  crown, 
Amid  thy  crowd  of  trim-girt  maidens  fair. 

"  And  shall  I  not  be  safe  from  men-folk  there, 
Thou  cruel  King,  when  she  is  guarding  me, 
The  mighty  maid  from  whom  the  shepherds  flee, 
When  in  the  gathering  dusk  'twixt  day  and  night, 
The  dead  leaves  tell  them  of  her  footsteps  light, 
Because  they  mind  how  dear  Actoeon  bought 
The  lovely  sight  for  which  he  never  sought, 
Diana  naked  in  the  water  wan. 

"  Yea,  what  fear  should  I  have  of  any  man 
When  through  the  woods  I,  wandering  merrily, 
With  girt-up  gown,  sharp  sword  upon  the  thigh, 
Full  quiver  on  the  back,  stout  bow  in  hand, 
Should  tread  with  firm  feet  many  a  grassy  land, 
And  grow  strong-limbed  in  following  up  the  deer, 
And  meet  the  lions'  eyes  with  little  fear  ? 


THE  DOOM  OF  KING  ACRISIUS.  147 

"  Alas !  no  doubt  she  hears  not ;  many  a  maid 
She  has  already,  of  no  beast  afraid, 
Crisp-haired,  with  arms  made  meet  for  archery, 
Whose  limbs  unclad  no  man  shall  ever  see ; 
Though  the  birds  see  them,  and  the  seeding  grass 
Harsh  and  unloving  over  them  may  pass, 
When  carelessly  through  rough  and  smooth  they  run, 
And  bough  and  brier  catches  many  a  one. 

"  Alas  !  why  on  these  free  maids  is  my  thought, 
When  to  such  miseiy  my  life  is  brought  ? 
I,  who  so  long  a  happy  maid  have  been, 
The  daughter  of  a  great  King  and  a  Queen  ; 
And  why  these  fresh  things  do  I  think  upon, 
Who  now  shall  see  but  little  of  the  sun  ? 

"  Here  every  day  shall  have  the  same  sad  tale, 
My  weary  damsels  with  their  faces  pale, 
The  dashing  of  the  sea  on  this  black  rock, 
Pipe  of  the  wind  through  cranny  and  through  lock, 
The  sea-bird's  cry,  like  mine  grown  hoarse  and  shrill, 
The  far-off  sound  of  horn  upon  the  hill, 
The  merry  pipe  about  the  shepherd's  home, 
And  all  the  things  whereto  I  ne'er  may  come. 

"  O  ye  who  rule  below,  I  pray  this  boon, 
I  may  not  live  here  long,  but  perish  soon, 
Forgotten,  but  at  peace,  since  I  feel  naught ; 
For  even  now  it  comes  across  my  thought 
That  here  my  wretched  body  dwells  alone, 
And  that  my  soul  with  all  my  hope  is  gone. 

"  Father,  thy  blood  upon  thine  own  head  be 
If  any  solace  Venus  send  to  me 
Within  this  wretched  place  which  thou  hast  made, 
Of  thine  own  flesh  and  blood  too  much  afraid. " 

Truly  Diana  heard  not,  for  that  tide 
Upon  the  green  grass  by  a  river-side, 
WHierein  she  had  just  bathed  her  body  sweet, 
She  stooped  to  tie  the  sandals  to  her  feet, 
Her  linen  gown  upon  the  herbage  lay, 
And  round  her  was  there  standing  many  a  may 
Making  her  ready  for  the  morning  chase. 

.  But  so  it  happed  that  Venus  by  the  place 
Was  passing,  just  arisen  from  the  sea, 
And  heard  the  maid  complaining  bitterly, 
So  to  the  window-bars  she  drew  anigh, 
And,  thence  unseen,  she  saw  the  maiden  lie, 


148  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

As  on  the  grass  herself  she  might  have  lain 

When  in  the  thicket  lay  Adonis  slain  ; 

For  power  and  joy  she  smiled  thereat,  and  thought, 

"  She  shall  not  suffer  all  this  pain  for  naught" 

And  slowly  for  Olympus  sailed  away, 

And  thither  came  at  hottest  of  the  day. 

Then  through  the  heavenly  courts  she  went,  and  when 
She  found  the  father  both  of  gods  and  men, 
She  smiled  upon  him,  and  said,  "  Knowest  thou 
What  deeds  are  wrought  by  men  in  Argos  now  ? 
Wherein  a  brazen  tower  well  builded  is, 
That  hides  a  maid  away  from  all  my  bliss  ; 
Since  thereby  thinks  Acrisius  to  forego 
This  doom  that  has  been  fated  long  ago, 
That  by  his  daughter's  son  he  shall  be  slain  ; 
Wherefore  he  puts  the  damsel  to  this  pain 
To  see  no  man,  and  thinks  to  'scape  his  doom 
If  she  but  live  and  die  with  barren  womb ; 
And  great  dishonor  is  it  unto  me 
That  such  a  maiden  lives  so  wretchedly ; 
And  great  dishonor  is  it  to  us  all 
That  ill  upon  a  guiltless  head  should  fall 
To  save  a  King  from  what  we  have  decreed. 
Now,  therefore,  tell  me,  shall  his  impious  deed 
Save  him  alive,  while  she  that  might  have  borne 
Great  kings  and  glorious  heroes  lives  forlorn 
Of  love's  delight,  in  solitude  and  woe  ?  " 

Then  said  the  Thunderer,  "  Daughter,  nowise  so 
Shall  this  be  in  the  end ;  heed  what  shall  fall, 
And  let  none  think  that  any  brazen  wall 
Can  let  the  Gods  from  doing  what  shall  be." 

Now  therewithal  went  Venus  to  the  sea 
Glad  of  her  father's  words,  and,  as  she  went, 
Unseen  the  gladness  of  the  spring  she  sent 
Across  the  happy  lands  o'er  which  she  moved, 
Until  all  men  felt  joyous  and  beloved. 

But  while  to  Paphos  carelessly  she  fared, 
All  day  upon  the  tower  the  hot  sun  glared, 
And  Danae  within  that  narrow  space 
Went  to  and  fro,  and  sometimes  hid  her  face 
Between  her  hands,  moaning  in  her  despair, 
Or  sometimes  tore  the  fillets  from  her  hair, 
And  sometimes  would  begin  a  piteous  tale 
Unto  her  maids,  and  in  the  midst  would  fail 


THE  DOOM  OF  KING  ACRISIUS.          149 

For  sobs  and  tears  ;  but  mostly  would  she  sit 
Over  against  the  window,  watching  it, 
And  feel  the  light  wind  blowing  from  the  sea 
Against  her  face,  with  hands  laid  listlessly 
Together  in  her  lap  ;  so  passed  the  day, 
And  to  their  sleep  her  damsels  went  away, 
And  through  the  dead  of  night  she  slept  awhile, 
But  when  the  dawn  came,  woke  up  with  a  smile, 
As  though  she  had  forgotten  all  her  pain, 
But  soon  the  heavy  burden  felt  again, 
And  on  her  bed  lay  tossing  wretchedly, 
Until  the  sun  had  nigh  looked  o'er  the  sea. 

In  that  fresh  morn  was  no  one  stirring  yet, 
And  many  a  man  his  troubles  did  forget 
Buried  in  sleep,  but  nothing  she  forgat, 
She  raised  herself  and  up  in  bed  she  sat, 
And  towards  the  window  turned  round  wearily 
To  watch  the  changing  colors  of  the  sky  ; 
And  many  a  time  she  sighed,  and  seemed  as  though 
She  would  have  told  the  story  of  her  woe 
To  whatsoever  god  near  by  might  be 
Betwixt  the  gray  sky  and  the  cold'gray  sea, 
But  to  her  lips  no  sound  at  all  would  rise, 
Except  those  oft-repeated  heavy  sighs. 

And  yet,  indeed,  within  a  little  while 
Her  face  grew  calm,  the  shadow  of  a  smile 
Stole  o'er  her  parted  lips  and  sweet  gray  eyes, 
And  slowly  from  the  bed  did  she  arise, 
And  towards  the  window  drew,  and  yet  did  seem, 
Although  her  eyes  were  open,  still  to  dream. 

There  on  the  sill  she  laid  her  slender  hand, 
And,  looking  seaward,  pensive  did  she  stand, 
And  seemed  as  though  she  waited  for  the  sun 
To  bring  her  news  her  misery  was  done  ; 
At  last  he  came  and  over  the  green  sea 
His  golden  road  shone  out  right  gloriously, 
And  into  Danae's  face  his  glory  came 
And  lit  her  softly  waving  hair  like  flame. 
But  in  his  light  she  held  out  both  her  hands, 
As  though  he  brought  her  from  some  far-off  lands 
Healing  for  all  her  great  distress  and  woe. 
.'  But  yellower  now  the  sunbeams  seemed  to  grow, 
Not  whiter  as  their  wont  is,  and  she  heard 
A  tinkling  sound  that  made  her,  half  afeard, 
Draw  back  a  little  from  the  fresh  green  sea, 
Then  to  a  clang  the  noise  rose  suddenly, 


150  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And  gently  was  she  smitten  on  the  breast, 
And  some  bright  thing  within  her  palm  did  rest, 
And  trickled  down  her  shoulder  and  her  side, 
And  on  her  limbs  a  little  did  abide, 
Or  lay  upon  her  feet  a  little  while. 

Then  in  her  face  increased  the  doubtful  smile, 
While  o'er  her  eyes  a  drowsy  film  there  came, 
And  in  her  cheeks  a  flush  as  if  of  shame, 
And,  looking  round  about,  could  she  behold 
The  chamber  scattered  o'er  with  shining  gold, 
That  grew,  till  ankle-deep  she  stood  in  it. 

Then  through  her  limbs  a  tremor  did  there  flit 
As  through  white  water  runs  the  summer  wind, 
And  many  a  wild  hope  came  into  her  mind, 
But  her  knees  bent  and  soft  she  sank  down  there, 
And  on  the  gold  was  spread  her  golden  hair, 
And  like  an  ivory  image  still  she  lay, 
Until  the  night  again  had  hidden  day. 

But  when  again  she  lifted  up  her  head, 
She  found  herself  laid  soft  within  her  bed, 
While  midmost  of  the  room  the  taper  shone, 
And  all  her  damsels  from  the  place  were  gone, 
And  by  her  head  a  gold-robed  man  there  stood, 
At  sight  of  whom  the  damsel's  shamefast  blood 
Made  all  her  face  red  to  the  golden  hair, 
And  quick  she  covered  up  her  bosom  fair. 

Then  in  a  great  voice  said  he,  "Danae, 
Sweet  child,  be  glad,  and  have  no  fear  of  me, 
And  have  no  shame,  nor  hide  from  thy  new  love 
The  breast  that  on  this  day  has  pillowed  Jove. 
Come  now,  come  from  that  balmy  nest  of  thine, 
And  stand  with  me  beneath  the  taper's  shine 
That  I  may  see  thy  beauty  once  again  ; 
Then  never  shalt  thou  be  in  any  pain, 
But  if  thou  liftest  up  thy  face  to  Jove 
I  shall  be  kind  to  my  sweet  simple  love ; 
I  shall  bethink  me  of  thy  body  sweet, 
From  golden  head  to  rosy  little  feet." 

Then,  trembling  sore,  from  out  the  bed  she  came 
And  hid  away  her  face  for  dread  and  shame, 
But  soon  she  trembled  more  for  very  love, 
To  feel  the  loving  hands  of  mighty  Jove 
Draw  down  her  hands,  and  kisses  on  the  head 
And  tender  bosom,  as  again  he  said, 


THE  DOOM  OF  KING  ACRISIUS.  151 

"  Now  must  I  go  ;  and  sweet  love,  Danae, 
Fear  nothing  more  that  man  can  do  to  thee, 
For  soon  shall  come  an  ending  to  thy  woe, 
And  thou  shalt  have  a  son  whose  name  shall  grow 
Still  greater,  till  the  mountains  melt  away 
And  men  no  more  can  tell  the  night  from  day. " 

Then  forth  he  sprang  and  o'er  the  sea  did  fly, 
And  loud  it  thundered  from  a  cloudless  sky. 


SO  when  her  damsels  came  to  her  next  day, 
And  thought  to  see  her  laid  in  her  old  way 
Upon  the  bed,  and  looking  out  to  sea 
Moaning  full  oft,  and  sighing  heavily, 
They  found  her  singing  o'er  a  web  of  silk 
Where  through  the  even  warp  as  white  as  milk 
Quick  flew  the  shuttle  from  her  arm  of  snow, 
And  somewhat  from  her  girded  gown  did  show 
On  the  black  treadles  both  her  rosy  feet, 
Moving  a  little  as  the  tall  green  wheat 
Moves  in  the  June  when  Zephyr  blows  on  it, 
So,  like  a  goddess  weaving  did  she  sit 

But  when  she  saw  her  maidens  wondering  stand 
She  ceased  her  song  and  stayed  her  busy  hand, 
And  said,  "  Girls,  if  ye  see  me  glad  to-day 
Be  naught  amazed,  for  all  things  pass  away  ; 
The  good  days  die,  but  also  die  the  bad. 

"  See  now,  in  sleep  last  night  a  dream  I  had 
That  in  his  claws  an  eagle  lifted  me 
And  bore  me  to  a  land  across  the  sea  : 
Wherefore  I  think  that  here  I  shall  not  die 
But  live  to  feel  dew  falling  from  the  sky, 
And  set  my  feet  deep  in  the  meadow  grass 
And  underneath  the  scented  pine-trees  pass, 
Or  in  the  garden  feel  the  western  breeze, 
The  herald  of  the  rain,  sweep  through  the  trees, 
Or  in  the  hottest  of  the  summer  day, 
Betwixt  green  banks  within  the  mill-stream  play. 
.    ' '  For  either  shall  my  father  soon  relent, 
"Or  for  my  sake  some  marvel  shall  be  sent, 
And  either  way  these  doors  shall  open  wide  ; 
And  then  doubt  not  to  see  me  soon  a  bride 
With  some  king's  amorous  son  before  my  feet. 

"  Ah  !  verily  my  life  shall  then  be  sweet ; 


152  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Before  these  days  I  knew  not  life  or  death, 
With  little  hope  or  fear  I  drew  my  breath, 
But  now  when  all  this  sorrow  is  o'erpast, 
Then  shall  I  feel  how  sweet  life  is  at  last, 
And  know  how  dear  peace  is  from  all  these  fears, 

"  So  no  more  will  I  waste  my  life  in  tears, 
But  pass  the  time  as  swiftly  as  may  be, 
Until  ye  step  out  on  the  turf  with  me." 

Then  glad  they  were,  when  such  like  words  they  heard, 
And  yet  some  doubted  and  were  sore  afeard 
That  she  had  grown  light-headed  with  her  woe, 
Dreading  the  time  might  come  when  she  would  throw 
Her  body  on  the  ground  and  perish  there, 
Slain  by  her  own  hand  mighty  with  despair. 
Nathless  the  days  more  merrily  went  by, 
And  from  that  prison  men  heard  minstrelsy, 
When  naught  but  mourning,  fisher-folk  afeard 
Who  passed  that  way,  in  others  times  had  heard. 

Yet  truly  Danae  said  that  all  things  pass 
And  are  forgotten  ;  in  that  house  of  brass 
Forgotten  was  the  stunning  bitter  pain 
Wrherewith  she  entered  it,  and  yet  again 
In  no  long  time,  hope  was  forgotten  too, 
When  wringing  torments  moaning  from  her  drew, 
And  to  and  fro  the  pale,  scared  damsels  went, 
And  those  her  guards  unto  Acrisius  sent. 

But  ere  the  messenger  returned  again 
She  had  been  eased  of  half  her  bitterest  pain, 
And  on  her  breast  a  fair  man-child  was  laid  ; 
Then  round  the  messenger  her  maids  afraid 
Drew  weeping  ;  but  he  charged  them  earnestly, 
Ever  to  watch  her  in  that  chamber  high, 
Lest  any  man  should  steal  the  babe  away, 
And  so  to  bide  until  there  came  a  day 
WThen  on  her  feet  she  might  arise  and  go, 
Whereof  by  messengers  the  King  must  know  ; 
So,  threatening  torments  unendurable, 
If  any  harm  through  treachery  befell, 
He  left  them,  and  no  more  to  them  he  told, 
But  in  his  face  the  sooth  they  might  behold. 

Now,  therefore,  when  some  wretched  days  were  past, 
And  trembling  by  the  bed  she  stood  at  last, 
She  heard  the  opening  of  the  outer  door, 
And  footsteps  came  again  from  floor  to  floor, 


THE  DOOM  OF  KING  ACRISIUS.  153 

And  soon  with  all-armed  men  her  chamber  shone, 
Who  with  few  words  now  led  her  forth  alone 
Adown  the  stairs  from  out  the  brazen  place  ; 
And  on  her  hot  hands,  and  her  tear-stained  face 
Half  fainting,  the  pine-scented  air  she  felt, 
And  all  about  the  salt  sea-savor  smelt, 
And  in  her  ears  the  dashing  of  the  sea 
Rang  ever  ;  thus  the  God  had  set  her  free. 

But  by  the  shore  further  they  led  her  still 
To  where  the  sea  beat  on  a  barren  hill, 
And  a  long  stage  of  timber  met  the  sea, 
At  end  whereof  was  tossing  fearfully 
A  little  boat  that  had  no  oars  or  sail, 
Or  aught  that  could  the  mariner  avail. 
Thither  with  her  their  steps  the  soldiers  bent, 
And  as  along  the  narrow  way  they  went 
The  salt  waves  leapt  aloft  to  kiss  her  feet 
And  in  the  wind  streamed  out  her  tresses  sweet ; 
But  little  heed  she  took  of  feet  or  head 
For  naught  she  doubted  she  to  death  was  led, 
But  ever  did  she  hold  against  her  breast 
The  little  babe,  and  spoke  not  for  the  rest, 
No,  not  when  in  the  boat  they  bade  her  go, 
And  'twixt  its  bulwarks  thin  she  lay  alow, 
Nor  when  adrift  they  set  her  presently 
And  all  about  was  but  the  angry  sea. 

No  word  she  said  until  the  sun  was  down, 
And  she  beheld  the  moon  that  on  no  town, 
On  no  fair  homestead,  no  green  pasture  shone, 
But  lit  up  the  unwearied  sea  alone  ; 
No  word  she  said  till  she  was  far  from  shore 
And  on  her  breast  the  babe  was  wailing  sore, 
And  then  she  lifted  up  her  face  to  Jove, 
And  said,  "  O  thou  who  once  didst  call  me  love, 
Hast  thou  forgotten  those  fair  words  of  thine, 
When  underneath  the  taper's  glimmering  shine 
Thou  bad'st  me  stand  that  thou  might'st  look  on  me, 
And  love  thou  call'dst  me,  and  sweet  Danae  ? 
Ncjw  of  thy  promised  help  am  I  most  fain, 
For  on  what  day  can  I  have  greater  pain 
Than  this  wherein  to-night  my  body  is, 
And  brought  thereto  by  what,  but  thy  sweet  kiss  ?  " 

But  neither  drd  she  pray  the  God  in  vain ; 
For  straight  he  set  himself  to  end  her  pain, 
And  while  he  cast  on  her  a  gentle  sleep, 


154  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

The  winds  within  their  houses  did  he  keep 
Except  the  west,  which  soft  on  her  did  blow, 
That  swiftly  through  the  sea  the  boat  might  go. 

Far  out  to  sea  a  certain  isle  doth  lie 
Men  called  Seriphos,  craggy,  steep,  and  high  : 
It  rises  up  on  every  side  but  one, 
And  mariners  its  ill-famed  headlands  shun  ; 
But  toward  the  south  the  meads  slope  soft  adown, 
Until  they  meet  the  yellow  sands  and  brown, 
That  slope  themselves  so  gently  to  the  sea, 
The  nymphs  are  hidden  only  to  the  knee 
When  half  a  mile  of  rippling  water  is 
Between  the  waves  that  their  white  limbs  do  kiss 
And  the  last  wave  that  washes  shells  ashore. 

To  this  fair  place  the  west  wind  onward  bore 
The  skiff  that  carried  Danae  and  her  son, 
And  on  the  morn,  when  scarce  the  dusk  was  done, 
Upon  the  sands  the  shallop  ran  aground  ; 
And  still  they  slept,  and  for  a  while  around 
Their  wretched  bed  the  waves  sang  lullaby, 
But  sank  at  last  and  left  the  long  strand  dry. 

Then  uprose  Danae,  and  nothing  knew 
What  land  it  was  :  about  her  sea-fowl  flew ; 
Behind  her  back  the  yet  retreating  sea 
Beat  on  the  yellow  sands  unceasingly ; 
Landward  she  saw  the  low,  green  meadows  lie, 
Dotted  with  homesteads,  ricli  with  elm-trees  high  ; 
And  at  her  feet  the  little  boat  there  lay 
That  happily  had  brought  her  on  the  way. 

But,  as  it  happed,  the  brother  of  the  King 
Had  ridden  forth  to  hear  the  sea-fowl  sing, 
With  hawk  on  fist,  right  early  on  that  morn, 
Hard  by  the  place  whereunto  she  was  borne. 
He,  seeing  far  away  a  white  thing  stand, 
Deemed  her  at  first  some  maiden  of  the  sand, 
Such  as  to  fishers  sings  a  honeyed  strain, 
And  leaves  them  longing  for  her  love  in  vain. 
So,  wishful  to  behold  the  sea-folk's  bride, 
He  set  the  spurs  into  his  horse's  side. 
But  drawing  nigher,  he  but  saw  her  there, 
Not  moving  much,  her  unbound  yellow  hair 
Heavy  with  dew  and  washing  of  the  sea  ; 
And  her  wet  raiment  clinging  amorously 
About  her  body,  in  the  wind's  despite  ; 
And  in  her  arms  her  woe  and  her  delight, 


THE  DOOM  OF  KING  ACRISIUS.          155 

Spreading  abroad  the  small  hands  helplessly 

That  on  some  day  should  still  the  battle's  cry. 

And  furthermore  he  saw  where  by  her  lay 

The  boat  that  brought  her  o'er  the  watery  way  : 

Then,  though  he  knew  not  whence  she  might  have  come, 

He  doubted  not  the  firm  land  was  her  home. 

But  when  he  came  anigh,  beholding  him, 
She  fell  a- trembling  in  her  every  limb, 
And  kneeling  to  him  held  the  young  babe  out, 
And  said  :   "  O  sir,  if,  as  I  have  no  doubt, 
In  this  strange  land  thou  art  a  king  and  lord, 
Speak  unto  me  some  comfortable  word. 

"  Born  of  a  king  who  rules  a  lovely  land, 
I  in  my  house  that  by  the  sea  doth  stand, 
With  all  my  girls,  made  merry  on  a  day  : 
Now  some  of  them  upon  the  sands  did  play, 
Dancing  unto  their  fellows'  minstrelsy ; 
And  some  it  pleased  upon  sweet  flowers  to  lie, 
Ripe  fruits  around,  and  thence  to  look  on  them; 
And  some  were  fain  to  lift  their  kirtles'  hem, 
And  through  the  shallows  chase  the  fishes  fleet ; 
But  in  this  shallop  would  I  have  my  seat 
Alone,  and  holding  this  my  little  son, 
And  knowing  not  that  my  good  days  were  done. 

"  Now  how  it  chanced,  in  sooth  I  cannot  say, 
But  yet  I  think  that  one  there  was  that  day, 
Who  for  some  hidden  cause  did  hate  me  sore, 
Who  cut  the  cord  that  bound  me  to  the  shore, 
And  soon  amidst  my  helpless  shrieks  the  boat, 
Oarless  and  sailless,  out  to  sea  did  float. 

"  But  now  that  many  a  danger  has  been  passed, 
The  gods  have  sent  me  to  your  land  at  last, 
Alive,  indeed,  but  such  like  as  you  see, 
Cold  and  drenched  through  with  washing  of  the  sea, 
Half  clad,  and  kneeling  on  an  unknown  land, 
And  for  a  morsel  holding  out  my  hand. " 

Then  said  he,  "  Lady,  fear  not  any  more, 
For  you  are  come  unto  no  savage  shore, 
But  here  shall  be  a  queen  as  erst  at  home  : 
And  if  thou  askest  whereto  thou  art  come, 
This  is  the  isle  ,Seriphos  ;  and  for  me, 
My  name  is  Dictys,  and  right  royally 
My  brother  lives,  the  King  of  all  the  isle. 
Him  shalt  thou  see  within  a  little  while, 


156  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And  doubtless  he  will  give  thee  everything 
That  'longs  unto  the  daughter  of  a  king. 

"  Meanwhile  I  bid  thee  in  mine  house  to  rest, 
And  there  thy  wearied  body  shall  be  dressed 
In  seemly  raiment  by  my  women-slaves, 
And  thou  shalt  wash  thee  from  the  bitter  waves, 
And  eat  and  drink,  and  sleep  full  easily  ; 
And  on  the  morrow  shalt  thou  come  with  me 
And  take  King  Polydectes  by  the  hand, 
Who  in  good  peace  rules  o'er  this  quiet  land." 

Then  on  his  horse  he  set  the  Queen,  while  he 
Walked  by  the  side  thereof  right  soberly ; 
And  half  asleep,  as  slow  they  went  along, 
She  laid  her  hand  upon  the  war-horse  strong, 
While  Dictys  by  her  side  Jove's  offspring  bore, 
And  thus  they  left  the  sea-beat  yellow  shore. 
And  as  one  dreaming  to  the  house  she  came, 
Where  in  the  sun  the  brazen  doors  did  flame ; 
And  there  she  ate  and  drank  as  in  a  dream ; 
Dreamlike  to  her  the  scented  bath  did  seem 
After  the  icy  sprinkling  of  the  waves, 
And  like  a  dream  the  fair,  slim  women-slaves, 
Who  laid  her  in  the  fair  bed,  where  she  slept 
Dreamless,  until  the  horned  white  moon  had  stepped 
Over  the  fresh  pine-scented  hills  again. 

But  when  the  sun  next  day  drave  forth  his  wain, 
The  damsel,  clad  in  queen-like  gold  array, 
With  Dictys  to  the  palace  took  her  way ; 
And  there  by  minstrels  duly  were  they  met, 
Who  brought  them  to  the  great  hall,  where  was  set 
The  King  upon  a  royal  throne  of  gold  : 
Black-bearded  was  he,  thirty  summers  old, 
Comely  and  strong,  and  seemed  a  king  indeed  ; 
Who,  when  he  saw  the  minstrels  thither  lead 
Fair  Danae,  rose  up  to  her,  and  said  : 
"  O,  welcome,  lady  !  be  no  more  afraid 
That  thou  shalt  lose  thy  state  and  dignity  ; 
Yea,  since  a  gem  the  gods  have  sent  to  me, 
With  plates  of  silver  will  I  overlay 
The  casket  that  has  brought  it  on  the  way, 
And  set  it  in  King  Neptune's  house  to  stand 
Until  the  sea  shall  wash  away  the  land. 

"  And  for  thyself  a  fair  house  shalt  thou  have 
With  all  things  needful,  and  right  many  a  slave, 
Both  men  and  women  ;  fair  shall  all  things  be 


THE  DOOM  OF  KING  ACRISIUS.         157 

That  thou  may'st  dwell  here  in  felicity, 

And  that  no  care  may  wrinkle  thy  smooth  brow. 

"  And  for  the  child,  when  he  is  old  enow 
The  priests  of  Pallas  shall  of  him  have  care, 
And  thou  shalt  dwell  hard  by  her  temple  fair ; 
But  on  this  good  day  in  mine  hall  abide, 
And  do  me  grace  in  sitting  by  my  side. " 

Then  mounted  she  the  dais  and  sat,  and  then 
Was  she  beheld  of  all  the  island  men, 
Who  praised  her  much,  and  praised  the  sturdy  child, 
Who  at  their  shouting  made  as  if  he  smiled. 

So  passed  the  feast,  and  at  the  end  of  day 
Towards  her  own  house  did  Danae  go  away, 
That  stood  amid  Minerva's  olive-trees 
Hidden  away  from  moaning  of  the  seas. 

And  there  began  fair  Danae's  life  again, 
And  quite  forgotten  was  her  ancient  pain, 
And  peacefully  did  day  succeed  to  day, 
While  fairer  grew  the  well-loved  child  alway, 
And  strong  and  wise  beyond  his  scanty  years, 
And  in  the  island  all  his  little  peers 
Held  him  for  lord,  whatso  might  be  their  worth, 
And  Perseus  is  his  name  from  this  time  forth. 


LO,  eighteen  summers  now  have  come  and  gone 
Since  on  the  beach  fair  Danae  stood  alone 
Holding  her  little  son,  nor  yet  was  she 
Less  fair  than  when  the  hoarse  unwilling  sea 
Moaned  loud  that  Neptune  drew  him  from  her  feet, 
And  the  wind  sighed  upon  her  bosom  sweet 
For  in  that  long-past  half-forgotten  time, 
While  yet  the  world  was  young,  and  the  sweet  clime, 
Golden  and  mild,  no  bitter  storm-clouds  bred, 
Light  lay  the  years  upon  the  untroubled  head, 
And  longer  men  lived  then  by  many  a  year 
Than  in  these  days,  when  every  week  is  dear. 

Now  on  a  day  was  held  a  royal  feast 
Whereon  there  should  be  slain  full  many  a  beast 
Unto  Minerva  ;  thereto  the  King  came, 
And  in  his  heart  love  lit  a  greedy  flame 
At  sight  of  Danae's  arms  stretched  out  in  prayer 


158  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Unto  the  goddess,  and  her  yellow  hair, 

Wreathed  round  with  olive-wreaths,  that  hung  adown 

Over  the  soft  folds  of  her  linen  gown  ; 

And  when  at  last  he  took  her  by  the  hand 

Speechless  by  her  did  Polydectes  stand, 

So  much  with  fond  desire  bewildered 

At  sight  of  all  that  wondrous  white  and  red, 

That  peaceful  face  wherein  all  past  distress 

Had  melted  into  perfect  loveliness. 

So  when  that  night  he  lay  upon  his  bed, 
Full  many  a  thought  he  turned  within  his  head 
Of  how  he  best  might  unto  that  attain, 
Whose  lack  now  filled  him  with  such  burning  pain. 
And  at  the  first  it  seemed  a  little  thing 
For  him  who  was  a  rich  man  and  a  king, 
Either  by  gifts  to  win  her,  or  to  send 
And  fetch  her  thither,  and  perforce  to  end 
Her  widowhood  ;  but  then  there  came  the  thought, 
"  By  force  or  gifts  hither  she  might  be  brought, 
And  here  might  I  get  that  for  which  I  long, 
Yet  has  she  here  a  son  both  brave  and  strong, 
Nor  will  he  think  it  much  to  end  my  days 
If  he  may  get  thereby  the  people's  praise, 
E'en  if  therewith  he  shortly  needs  must  die ; 
Ah,  verily,  a  purblind  fool  was  I, 
That  when  I  first  beheld  that  matchless  face 
I  had  no  eyes  to  see  her  heavenly  grace  ; 
Then  with  few  words  might  I  have  held  her  here 
And  kept  her  for  mine  own  with  little  fear  ; 
But  now  I  have  no  will  the  lad  to  slay, 
For  he  would  be  revenged  some  evil  day, 
Who  now  Jove's  offspring  do  I  think  to  be, 
So  dowered  he  is  with  might  and  majesty. 

"  Yet  could  I  find  perchance  some  fair  pretence 
Whereby  with  honor  I  might  send  him  hence, 
Nor  have  the  youngling's  blood  upon  my  head, 
Then  might  he  be  wellnigh  as  good  as  dead." 

So  pondering  on  his  bed  long  time  he  lay, 
Until  the  night  began  to  mix  with  day, 
And  then  he  smiled,  and  so  to  sleep  turned  round, 
As  though  at  last  some  sure  way  he  had  found. 

And  now  it  chanced  to  come  round  to  the  day, 
When  all  the  lords  clad  in  their  rich  array 
Unto  the  King  should  come  for  royal  feast ; 
And  there  the  way  was,  that  both  most  and  least 


THE  DOOM  OF  KING  ACRISIUS.          159 

Should  thither  bear  some  present  for  the  King, 
As  horse  or  sword,  gold  chain,  fair  cup,  or  ring. 
Unto  which  feast  was  Perseus  bidden  now, 
Who  giftless  came,  bare  as  the  winter  bough, 
For  little  was  his  wealth  in  that  strange  land. 

So  there  ashamed  it  was  his  lot  to  stand, 
Before  the  guests  were  called  to  meat,  and  when 
He  sat  amidst  those  royally  clad  men 
Little  he  spake  for  shame  of  his  estate, 
Not  knowing  yet  his  godlike  birth  and  great. 

So  passed  the  feast,  and  when  the  full  time  came 
To  show  the  gifts,  he  waxed  all  red  for  shame  ; 
For  through  the  hall  white  horses  were  brought  up, 
And  well-clad  slaves,  and  many  a  dainty  cup, 
And  many  a  gem  well  set  in  brooch  or  ring, 
And  laid  before  the  da'is  of  the  King. 
But  all  alone  of  great  folk  of  the  land 
With  eyes  cast  down  for  rage  did  Perseus  stand, 
Yet  for  his  manhood  thence  he  would  not  go. 

Now  some  that  secretly  were  bidden  so, 
Beholding  him,  began  to  gibe  and  jeer, 
Yet  not  too  loud,  held  back  perchance  by  fear, 
And  thus  a  murmur  spread  about  the  hall 
As,  each  to  each,  men  cast  about  the  ball, 
Which  the  King  heard,  or  seemed  to  hear  at  last, 
And  round  the  noisy  hall  a  look  he  cast, 
And  then  beholding  Perseus  with  a  smile 
He  said,  "  Good  friends,  fair  lords,  be  still  awhile, 
And  say  no  ill  about  this  giftless  guest, 
For  truly  not  the  worst,  if  scarce  the  best, 
I  hold  him,  and  forsooth  so  rich  I  live 
Within  this  land,  that  I  myself  may  give 
Somewhat  to  him,  nor  yet  take  from  him  aught, 
And  when  I  bade  him  here  this  was  my  thought" 

Then  stretching  out  his  arm  did  he  take  up 
From  off  the  board  a  jewelled  golden  cup, 
And  said,  "  O  Perseus,  come  and  sit  by  me, 
And  from  my  hand  take  this,  that  thou  dost  see, 
And  be  my  friend."     Then  Perseus  drew  anear, 
And  took  the  cup  and  said,  "  This  shall  be  dear 
Unto  mine  eyes  while  on  the  earth  I  live  ; 
And  yet  a  gift  I  in  my  turn  may  give, 
When  to  this  land  comes  bitter  war,  or  when 
Some  enemy  thou  hast  among  great  men  ; 
Yea,  sire,  among  these  knights  and  lords  I  swear 
To  do  whatso  thou  bidd'st  me  without  fear." 


160  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Then  the  King  smiled  and  said,  "  Yea,  verily, 
Then  wilt  thou  give  a  great  gift  unto  me, 
Nor  yet,  forsooth,  too  early  by  a  day  ; 
To-morrow  may'st  thou  be  upon  thy  way. 

"  Far  in  the  western  sea  a  land  there  is 
Desert  and  vast,  and  emptied  of  all  bliss, 
Where  dwell  the  Gorgons  wretchedly  enow; 
Two  of  them  die  not,  one  above  her  brow 
And  wretched  head  bears  serpents,  for  the  shame 
That  on  an  ill  day  fell  upon  her  name, 
When  in  Minerva's  shrine  great  sin  was  wrought, 
For  thither  by  the  Sea-god  she  was  brought, 
And  in  the  maiden's  house  in  love  they  mixed ; 
Who,  wrathful,  in  her  once  fair  tresses  fixed 
That  snaky  brood,  and  shut  her  evermore 
Within  a  land  west  of  the  Lybian  shore. 

"  Now  if  a  king  could  gain  this  snaky  head 
Full  well  for  war  were  he  apparelled, 
Because  no  man  may  look  thereon  and  live. 
A  great  gift,  therefore,  Perseus,  wouldst  thou  give, 
If  thou  shouldst  bring  this  wonder  unto  me  ; 
And  for  the  place,  far  in  the  western  sea 
It  lies,  I  say,  but  nothing  more  I  know, 
Therefore  I  bid  thee  to  some  wise  man  go 
Who  has  been  used  this  many  a  day  to  pore 
O'er  ancient  books  of  long-forgotten  lore." 

Thus  spoke  the  King,  knowing  the  while  full  well 
None  but  a  god  of  that  far  land  could  tell. 

But  Perseus  answered,  "O  my  Lord,  the  King, 
Thou  settest  me  to  win  a  dreadful  thing, 
Yet  for  thy  bounty  this  gift  will  I  give 
Unto  thine  hands,  if  I  should  chance  to  live." 

With  that  he  turned,  and  silent,  full  of  thought, 
From  out  the  hall  he  passed,  not  noting  aught, 
And  toward  his  home  he  went  but  soberly, 
And  thence  went  forth  an  ancient  man  to  see 
He  hoped  might  tell  him  that  he  wished  to  know 
And  to  what  land  it  were  the  best  to  go. 
But  when  he  told  the  elder  all  the  tale, 
He  shook  his  head,  and  said,  "Naught  will  avail 
My  lore  for  this,  nor  dwells  the  man  on  earth 
Whose  wisdom  for  this  thing  will  be  of  worth ; 
Yea,  to  this  dreadful  land  no  man  shall  win 
Unless  some  god  himself  shall  help  therein  ; 
Therefore,  my  son,  I  rede  thee  stay  at  home, 


THE  DOOM  OF  KING  ACRISIUS.          161 

For  thou  shalt  have  full  many  a  chance  to  roam 
Seeking  for  something  that  all  men  love  well, 
Not  for  an  unknown  isle  where  monsters  dwell." 

Then  forth  again  went  Perseus  soberly, 
And  walked  along  the  border  of  the  sea, 
Upon  the  yellow  sands  where  first  he  came 
That  time  that  he  was  deemed  his  mother's  shame. 

And  now  was  it  the  first  hour  of  the  night, 
Therefore  within  the  west  a  yellow  light 
Yet  shone,  though  risen  was  the  horned  moon, 
Whose  lonely  cold  gray  beams  would  quench  it  soon, 
Though  now  her  light  was  shining  doubtfully 
On  the  wet  sands,  for  low  down  was  the  sea 
But  rising,  and  the  salt-sea  wind  blew  strong 
And  drave  the  hurrying  breakers  swift  along. 
So  there  walked  Perseus  thinking  many  a  thing 
About  those  last  words  of  the  wily  King, 
And  as  he  went  at  last  he  came  upon 
An  ancient  woman,  who  said,  "  Fair,  my  son, 
What  dost  thou  wandering  here  in  the  cold  night  ? 
When  in  the  King's  hall  glance  from  shade  to  light 
The  golden  sandals  of  the  dancing  girls, 
And  in  the  gold  cups  set  with  gems  and  pearls 
The  wine  shines  fair  that  glads  the  heart  of  man ; 
What  dost  thou  wandering  'neath  the  moonlight  wan  ?  " 

"  This  have  I  done,"  said  he,  "  as  one  should  swear 
To  make  the  vine  bear  bunches  twice  a  year, 
For  I  have  sworn  the  Gorgon's  head  to  bring 
A  worthy  gift  unto  our  island  King, 
When  neither  I  nor  any  man  can  tell 
In  what  far  land  apart  from  men  they  dwell. 
Some  god  alone  can  help  me  in  my  need  ; 
And  yet  unless  somehow  I  do  the  deed 
An  exile  I  must  be  from  this  fair  land, 
Nor  with  my  peers  shall  I  have  heart  to  stand." 

Grim  in  the  moonlight  smiled  the  aged  crone, 
And  said,  "  If  living  there  thou  com'st,  alone 
0f  all  men  yet,  what  thinkest  thou  to  do  ? 
Then  verily  thy  journey  shalt  thou  rue, 
For  whoso  looks  upon  that  face  meets  death, 
That  in  his  sick  heart  freezes  up  his  breath 
Until  he  has  the  semblance  of  a  stone." 

But  Perseus  answered  straightly  to  the  crone, 
"  O  mother,  if  the  gods  but  give  me  grace 
To  come  anigh  that  fair  and  dreadful  face, 
II 


162  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Well  may  they  give  me  grace  enough  also 
Their  enemy  and  mine  to  lay  alow." 

Now  as  he  spake,  the  white  moon  risen  high 
Burst  from  a  cloud,  and  shone  out  gloriously, 
And  down  the  sands  her  path  of  silver  shone, 
And  lighted  full  upon  that  ancient  crone  ; 
And  there  a  marvel  Perseus  saw  indeed, 
Because  in  face,  in  figure,  and  in  weed, 
She  wholly  changed  before  his  wondering  eyes. 

Now  tall  and  straight  her  figure  did  arise, 
That  erst  seemed  bent  with  weight  of  many  a  year, 
And  on  her  head  a  helmet  shone  out  clear 
For  the  rent  clout  that  held  the  grizzled  head  : 
With  a  fair  breastplate  was  she  furnished, 
From  whence  a  hauberk  to  her  knees  fell  down ; 
And  underneath,  a  perfumed  linen  gown, 
Overwrought  with  many-colored  Indian  silk, 
Fell  to  her  sandalled  feet,  as  white  as  milk. 
Gray-eyed  she  was,  like  amber  shone  her  hair, 
Aloft  she  held  her  right  arm  round  and  bare, 
Whose  long  white  fingers  closed  upon  a  spear. 

Then  trembled  Perseus  with  unwonted  fear 
When  he  beheld  before  him  Pallas  stand, 
And  with  bowed  head  he  stood  and  outstretched  hand  ; 
But  she  smiled  on  him  softly,  and  she  said, 
' '  Hold  up  again,  O  Perseus,  thy  fair  head, 
Because  thou  art  indeed  my  father's  son, 
And  in  this  quest  that  now  thou  goest  upon 
Thou  shalt  not  fail :  I  swear  it  by  my  head, 
And  that  black  water  all  immortals  dread. 

"  Look  now  before  my  feet,  and  thou  shalt  see 
Four  helpful  things  the  high  gods  lend  to  thee, 
Not  willing  thou  shouldst  journey  forth  in  vain  : 
Hermes  himself,  the  many-eyed  one's  bane, 
Gives  these  two-winged  shoes,  to  carry  thee 
Tireless  high  over  every  land  and  sea  ; 
This  cap  is  his  whose  chariot  caught  away 
The  maid  of  Enna  from  her  gentle  play  ; 
And  if  thou  art  hard  pressed  of  any  one 
Set  this  on  thee,  and  so  be  seen  of  none  : 
The  halting  god  was  craftsman  of  this  blade, 
No  better  shone,  when,  making  heaven  afraid, 
The  giants  round  our  golden  houses  cried, 
For  neither  brass  nor  steel  its  edge  can  bide, 
Or  flinty  rocks,  or  gleaming  adamant : 


THE  DOOM  OF  KING  ACRISIUS.         163 

With  these,  indeed,  but  one  thing  dost  thou  want, 
And  that  I  give  thee  ;  little  need'st  thou  reck 
Of  those  gray  hopeless  eyes,  if  round  thy  neck 
Thou  hang'st  this  shield,  that,  hanging  once  on  mine, 
In  the  grim  giant's  hopeless  eyes  did  shine. 

"  And  now  be  strong,  and  fly  forth  with  good  heart 
Far  northward,  till  thou  seest  the  ice-walls  part 
The  weary  sea  from  snow-clad  lands  and  wan, 
Untrodden  yet  by  any  son  of  man. 
There  dwell  the  Gorgons'  ancient  sisters  three 
Men  call  the  Graiae,  who  make  shift  to  see 
With  one  eye,  which  they  pass  from  hand  to  hand. 
Now  make  thyself  unseen  in  this  white  land 
And  snatch  the  eye,  while  crooning  songs  they  sit, 
From  hand  to  withered  hand  still  passing  it ; 
And  let  them  buy  it  back  by  telling  thee 
How  thou  shall  find  within  the  western  sea 
The  unknown  country  where  their  sisters  dwell. 

"  Which  thing  unto  thee  I  myself  would  tell, 
But  when  with  many  a  curse  I  set  them  there, 
I  in  my  wrath  by  a  great  oath  did  swear 
I  would  not  name  again  the  country  gray 
Wherein  they  dwell,  with  little  light  of  day. 

"Good  speed,  O  Perseus  ;  make  no  tarrying, 
But  straightly  set  thyself  to  do  this  thing. " 

Now  as  his  ears  yet  nmg  with  words  like  these, 
And  on  the  sand  he  sank  upon  his  knees 
Before  the  goddess,  there  he  knelt  alone 
As  in  a  dream  ;  but  still  the  white  moon  shone 
Upon  the  sword,  the  shield,  and  cap  and  shoes, 
Which  half  adrad  he  was  at  first  to  use, 
Until  the  goddess  gave  him  heart  at  last, 
And  his  own  gear  in  haste  aside  he  cast, 
And  armed  himself  in  that  wild,  lonely  place  : 
Then  turning  round,  northward  he  set  his  face, 
And  rose  aloft  and  o'er  the  lands  'gan  fly, 
Betwixt  the  green  earth  and  the  windy  sky. 
.'  Young  was  the  night  when  first  he  left  the  sands 
Of  small  Seriphos,  but  right  many  lands 
Before  the  moon  was  down  his  winged  feet 
Had  borne  him  over,  tireless,  strong,  and  fleet 
Then  in  the  starlight  black  beneath  him  lay 
The  German  forests,  where  the  wild  swine  play, 
Fearless  of  what  Diana's  maids  may  do, 
Who  ever  have  more  will  to  wander  through 


164  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

The  warm  and  grassy  woods  of  Thessaly, 
Or  in  Sicilian  orange-gardens  lie. 

But  ere  the  hot  sun  on  his  arms  'gan  shine 
He  had  passed  o'er  the  Danube  and  the  Rhine, 
And  heard  the  faint  sound  of  the  northern  sea ; 
But  ever  northward  flew  untiringly, 
Till  Thule  lay  beneath  his  feet  at  last 
Then  o'er  its  desert  icy  hills  he  passed, 
And  on  beneath  a  feeble  sun  he  flew, 
Till,  rising  like  a  wall,  the  cliffs  he  knew 
That  Pallas  told  him  of :  the  sun  was  high, 
But  on  the  pale  ice  shone  but  wretchedly  ; 
Pale  blue  the  great  mass  was,  and  cold  enow  ; 
Gray  tattered  moss  hung  from  its  jagged  brow, 
No  wind  was  there  at  all,  though  ever  beat 
The  leaden  tideless  sea  against  its  feet 

Then  lighted  Perseus  on  that  dreary  land, 
And  when  on  the  white  plain  his  feet  did  stand 
He  saw  no  sign  of  either  beast  or  man, 
Except  that  near  by  rose  a  palace  wan, 
Built  of  some  metal  that  he  could  not  name. 
Thither  he  went,  and  to  a  great  door  came 
That  stood  wide  open,  so  without  a  word 
He  entered  in,  and  drew  his  deadly  sword, 
Though  neither  sword  or  man  could  you  behold 
More  than  folk  see  their  death  ere  they  grow  old. 

So  having  entered,  through  a  cloister  gray 
With  cautious  steps  and  slow  he  took  his  way, 
At  end  whereof  he  found  a  mighty  hall ; 
Where,  bare  of  hangings,  a  white  marble  wall 
And  milk-white  pillars  held  the  roof  aloft, 
And  nothing  was  therein  of  fair  or  soft ; 
And  at  one  end,  upon  a  dais  high, 
There  sat  the  crones  that  had  the  single  eye, 
Clad  in  blue  sweeping  cloak  and  snow-white  gown  ; 
While  o'er  their  backs  their  straight  white  hair  hung  down 
In  long  thin  locks  ;  dreadful  their  faces  were 
Carved  all  about  with  wrinkles  of  despair  ; 
And  as  they  sat  they  crooned  a  dreary  song, 
Complaining  that  their  lives  should  last  so  long, 
•  In  that  sad  place  that  no  one  came  anear, 
In  that  wan  place  desert  of  hope  and  fear  ; 
And,  singing,  still  they  rocked  their  bodies  bent, 
And  ever  each  to  each  the  eye  they  sent 

Awhile  stood  Perseus  gazing  on  the  three, 


THE  DOOM  OF  KING  ACRISIUS.          165 

Then  sheathed  his  sword,  and  toward  them  warily 
He  went,  and  from  the  last  one  snatched  the  eye, 
Who,  feeling  it  gone  from  her,  with  a  cry 
Sprung  up  and  said,  "  O  sisters,  he  is  here 
That  we  were  warned  so  long  ago  to  fear, 
And  verily  he  has  the  eye  of  me. " 

Then  those  three,  thinking  they  no  more  should  see 
What  feeble  light  the  sun  could  show  them  there, 
And  that  of  all  joys  now  their  life  was  bare, 
Began  a  wailing  and  lamenting  sore 
That  they  were  worse  than  ever  heretofore. 

Then  Perseus  cried,  ' '  Unseen  am  I  indeed, 
But  yet  a  mortal  man,  who  have  a  need 
Your  wisdom  can  make  good,  if  so  ye  will ; 
Now  neither  do  I  wish  you  any  ill, 
Nor  this  your  treasure  will  I  keep  from  you 
If  ye  will  tell  me  what  I  needs  must  do 
To  gain,  upon  the  earth  or  under  it, 
The  dreary  country  where  your  sisters  sit : 
Of  whom,  as  wise  men  say,  the  one  is  fair 
As  any  goddess,  but  with  snaky  hair 
And  body  that  shall  perish  on  some  day, 
While  the  two  others  ancient  are,  and  gray 
As  ye  be,  but  shall  see  the  whole  world  die." 

Then  said  they,  "  Rash  man,  give  us  back  the  eye 
Or  rue  this  day,  for  wretched  as  we  are, 
Beholding  not  fair  peace  or  godlike  war, 
Or  any  of  the  deeds  of  men  at  all, 
Yet  are  we  strong,  and  on  thy  head  shall  fall 
Our  heavy  curses,  and  but  dismally 
Thy  life  shall  pass  until  thou  com'st  to  die. " 

"  Make  no  delay,"  he  said,  "  to  do  this  thing, 
Or  this  your  cherished  sight  I  soon  shall  fling 
Into  the  sea,  or  burn  it  up  with  fire" 

"  What  else,  what  else,  but  this  wit  thou  desire  ?" 
They  said.    "  Wilt  thou  have  long  youth  at  our  hands? 
Or  wilt  thou  be  the  king  of  lovely  lands  ? 
Or  store  up  wealth  to  lead  thy  life  in  mirth  ? 
OJ  wilt  thou  have  the  beauty  of  the  earth 
With  all  her  kindness  for  thy  very  own  ? 
Choose  what  thou  wilt  except  this  thing  alone." 

"  Nay,"  said  he,  "  for  naught  else  I  left  my  home, 
For  this  sole  knowledge  hither  am  I  come, 
Not  all  unholpen  of  the  gods  above  ; 
Nor  yet  shall  words  my  steadfast  purpose  move. " 

Then  with  that  last  word  did  he  hold  his  peace, 


1 66  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And  they  no  less  from  wailing  words  did  cease, 

Hoping  that  in  that  silence  he  might  think 

Of  their  dread  words  and  from  the  evils  shrink 

Wherewith  they  threatened  him  ;  but  in  his  heart 

Most  godlike  courage  fit  for  such  a  part 

The  white-armed  goddess  of  the  loom  had  set, 

Nor  hi  that  land  her  help  did  he  forget 

Withal,  when  many  an  hour  had  now  gone  by, 
Together  did  the  awesome  sisters  cry, 
"O  man  !  O  man !  hear  that  which  thou  wouldst  know, 
And  with  thy  knowledge  let  the  dread  curse  go, 
We,  least  of  all,  have  'scaped,  of  those  who  dwell 
Upon  this  wretched  fire-concealing  shelL 
Slave  of  the  cruel  gods  !  go,  get  ye  hence, 
And,  storing  deeds  for  fruitless  penitence, 
Go  east,  as  though  in  Scythia  was  your  home, 
But  when  unto  the  wind-beat  seas  ye  come 
Stop  short,  and  turn  round  to  the  south  again 
Until  ye  reach  the  western  land  of  Spain ; 
Then  o'er  the  straits  ye  soon  shall  come  to  be 
Betwixt  the  ocean  and  the  inner  sea, 
Thenceforth  go  westward  even  as  thou  may'st 
Until  ye  find  a  dark  land  long  laid  waste, 
Where  green  cliffs  rise  from  out  an  inky  sea, 
But  no  green  leaf  may  grow  on  bush  or  tree. 
No  sun  makes  day  there,  no  moon  lighteth  night, 
The  long  years  there  must  pass  in  gray  twilight ; 
There  dwell  our  sisters,  walking  dismally, 
Between  the  dull-brown  caverns  and  the  sea. 

"Tool  in  the  hands  of  gods  !  do  there  thy  might ! 
Nor  fall  like  us,  nor  strive  for  peace  and  right ; 
But  give  our  own  unto  us  and  be  gone, 
And  leave  us  to  our  misery  alone. " 

Then  straight  he  put  the  eye  into  the  hand 
Of  her  that  spoke,  and  turned  from  that  white  land, 
Leaving  them  singing  their  grim  song  again. 
But  flying  forth  he  came  at  last  to  Spain, 
And  so  unto  the  southern  end  of  it, 
And  then  with  restless  wings  due  west  did  flit 
For  many  a  day  across  the  sea  he  flew, 
That  lay  beneath  him  clear  enough  and  blue, 
Until  at  last  rose  such  a  thick  gray  mist, 
That  of  what  lay  beneath  him  naught  he  wist ; 
But  still  through  this  he  flew  a  night  and  day 


THE  DOOM  OF  KING  ACRISIUS.          167 

Hearkening  the  washing  of  the  watery  way, 
Unseen  :  but  when,  at  ending  of  the  night, 
The  mist  was  gone  and  gray  sea  came  in  sight, 
He  thought  that  he  had  reached  another  world  ; 
This  way  and  that  the  leaden  seas  were  hurled, 
Moved  by  no  wind,  but  by  some  unseen  power ; 
Twilight  it  was  and  still  his  feet  dropped  lower, 
As  through  the  thickening,  dim  hot  air  he  passed, 
Until  he  feared  to  reach  the  sea  at  last. 

But  even  as  his  feet  dragged  in  the  sea, 
He,  praying  to  the  goddess  fervently, 
Felt  her  good  help,  for  soon  he  rose  again 
Three  fathoms  up,  and  flew  with  lessened  pain  ; 
And  looking  through  the  dimness  could  behold 
The  wretched  land  whereof  the  sisters  told. 
And  soon  could  see  how  clown  the  green  cliffs  fell 
A  yellow  stream,  that  from  some  inland  well 
Arose,  and  through  the  land  ran  sluggishly, 
Until  it  poured  with  dull  plash  in  the  sea 
Like  molten  lead  ;  and  nigher  as  he  came 
He  saw  great  birds,  whose  kind  he  could  not  name, 
That  whirling  noiselessly  about  did  seem 
To  seek  a  prey  within  that  leaden  stream  ; 
And  drawing  nigher  yet,  at  last  he  saw 
That  many  of  them  held,  with  beak  or  claw, 
Great  snakes  they  tore  still  flying  through  the  air. 
Then  making  for  the  cliff  and  lighting  there 
He  saw,  indeed,  that  tawny  stream  and  dull 
Of  intertwining  writhen  snakes  was  full, 
So,  with  a  shudder,  thence  he  turned  away, 
And  through  the  untrodden  land  he  took  his  way. 

Now  cave-pierced  rocks  there  rose  up  everywhere, 
And  gaunt  old  trees,  of  leaves  and  fruit  all  bare ; 
And  midst  this  wretchedness  a  mighty  hall, 
Whose  great  stones  made  a  black  and  shining  wall ; 
The  doors  were  open,  and  thence  came  a  cry 
Of  one  in  anguish  wailing  bitterly  ; 
Then  o'er  its  threshold  passed  the  son  of  Jove, 
Well  shielded  by  the  gray-eyed  Maiden's  love. 

Nbw  there  he  saw  two  women  bent  and  old, 
Like  to  those  three  that  erst  he  did  behold 
Far  northward,  sitting  wellnigh  motionless. 
Their  eyes,  grown  stony  with  their  long  distress, 
Stared  out  at  naught,  and  still  no  sound  they  made, 
And  on  their  knees  their  wrinkled  hands  were  laid. 

But  a  third  woman  paced  about  the  hall, 


168  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And  ever  turned  her  head  from  wall  to  wall 
And  moaned  aloud,  and  shrieked  in  her  despair ; 
Because  the  golden  tresses  of  her  hair 
Were  moved  by  writhing  snakes  from  side  to  side, 
That  in  their  writhing  oftentimes  would  glide 
On  to  her  breast,  or  shuddering  shoulders  white ; 
Or,  falling  down,  the  hideous  things  would  light 
Upon  her  feet,  and  crawling  thence  would  twine 
Their  slimy  folds  about  her  ankles  fine. 
But  in  a  thin  red  garment  was  she  clad, 
And  round  her  waist  a  jewelled  band  she  had, 
The  gift  of  Neptune  on  the  fatal  day 
When  fate  her  happiness  first  put  away. 

So  there  awhile  unseen  did  Perseus  stand, 
With  softening  heart,  and  doubtful  trembling  hand 
Laid  on  his  sword-hilt,  muttering,  "  Would  that  she 
Had  never  turned  her  woful  face  to  me !  " 
But  therewith  Pallas  smote  him  with  this  thought, 
"  Does  she  desire  to  live,  who  has  been  brought 
Into  such  utter  woe  and  misery, 
Wherefrom  no  god  or  man  can  set  her  free, 
Since  Pallas'  dreadful  vow  shall  bind  her  fast, 
Till  earth  and  heaven  are  gone,  and  all  is  past  ? 
—  And  yet,  would  God  the  thing  were  at  an  end  !  " 

Then  with  that  word,  he  saw  her  stop  and  rend 
The  raiment  from  her  tender  breast  and  soft, 
And  with  a  great  cry  lift  her  arms  aloft ; 
Then  on  her  breast  her  head  sank,  as  she  said, 
"  O  ye,  be  merciful,  and  strike  me  dead  ! 
How  many  an  one  cries  unto  you  to  live, 
Which  gift  ye  find  no  little  thing  to  give, 
O  give  it  now  to  such,  and  unto  me 
That  other  gift  from  which  all  people  flee ! 

"  O,  was  it  not  enough  to  take  away 
The  flowery  meadows  and  the  light  of  day  ? 
Or  not  enough  to  take  away  from  me 
The  once-loved  faces  that  I  used  to  see ; 
To  take  away  sweet  sounds  and  melodies, 
The  song  of  birds,  the  rustle  of  the  trees  ; 
To  make  the  prattle  of  the  children  cease, 
And  wrap  my  soul  in  shadowy  hollow  peace, 
Devoid  of  longing  ?     Ah,  no,  not  for  me  ! 
For  those  who  die  your  friends  this  rest  shall  be  ; 
For  me  no  rest  from  shame  and  sore  distress, 
For  me  no  moment  of  forgetfulness  ; 
For  me  a  soul  that  still  might  love  and  hate, 


THE  DOOM  OF  KING  ACRISIUS.  169 

Shut  in  this  fearful  land  and  desolate, 
Changed  by  mine  eyes  to  horror  and  to  stone ; 
For  me  perpetual  anguish  all  alone, 
Midst  many  a  tormenting  misery, 
Because  I  know  not  if  I  e'er  shall  die. 

' '  And  yet,  and  yet,  thee  will  I  pray  unto, 
Thou  dweller  in  the  varying  halls  of  blue, 
Fathoms  beneath  the  treacherous  bridge  of  lands. 
Call  now  to  mind  that  day  upon  the  sands, 
Hard  by  the  house  of  Pallas  white  and  cold, 
Where  hidden  in  some  wave  thou  didst  behold 
This  body,  fearless  of  the  cold  gray  sea, 
And  dowered  as  yet  with  fresh  virginity. 

"  How  many  things  thou  promisedst  me  then  ! 
Who  among  all  the  daughters  of  great  men 
Should  be  like  me  ?  what  sweet  and  happy  life ! 
What  peace,  if  all  the  world  should  be  at  strife, 
Thou  promisedst  me  then  !     Lay  all  aside, 
And  give  unto  the  great  Earth-Shaker's  bride 
That  which  the  wretch  shut  up  in  prison  drear, 
Deprived  of  all,  yet  ceases  not  to  fear  ; 
That  which  all  men  fear  more  than  all  distress, 
Irrevocable  dull  forgetfulness. " 

Her  constant  woful  prayer  was  heard  at  last, 
For  now  behind  her  unseen  Perseus  passed, 
And  silently  whirled  the  great  sword  around  ; 
And  when  it  fell,  she  fell  upon  the  ground, 
And  felt  no  more  of  all  her  bitter  pain. 

But  from  their  seats  rose  up  with  curses  vain 
The  two  immortals  when  they  saw  her  fall 
Headless  upon  the  floor,  and  loud  'gan  call 
On  those  that  came  not,  because  far  away 
Their  friends  and  kindred  were  upon  that  day. 
Then  to  and  fro  about  the  hall  they  ran 
To  find  the  slayer,  were  he  god  or  man, 
And  when  unseen  from  out  the  place  he  drew, 
Upon  the  unhappy  corpse,  with  wails,  they  threw 
Th'eiV  wretched  and  immortal  bodies  old  : 
But  when  the  one  the  other  did  behold, 
Alive  and  hideous  there  before  her  eyes, 
Such  anguish  for  the  past  time  would  arise 
Within  their  hearts,  that  the  lone  hall  would  ring 
With  dreadful  shrieks  of  many  an  impious  thing. 

Yet  of  their  woe  but  little  Perseus  knew, 
As  with  a  stout  heart  southeast  still  he  flew. 


170  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 


NOW  at  his  side  a  wallet  Perseus  bore, 
With  threads  of  yellow  gold  embroidered  o'er. 
Shuddering,  therein  he  laid  the  fearful  head, 
Lest  he  unwitting  yet  might  join  the  dead, 
Or  those  he  loved  by  sight  of  it  be  slain. 

But  strong  Fate  led  him  to  the  Lybian  plain, 
Where,  at  the  ending  of  a  sultry  day, 
A  palace  huge  and  fair  beneath  him  lay, 
Whose  roofs  with  silver  plates  were  covered  o'er; 
Then  lighting  down  by  its  enormous  door, 
He  heard  unmeasured  sounds  of  revelry, 
And  thought,  "  A  fair  place  this  will  be  for  me, 
Who  lack  both  food  and  drink,  and  rest  this  night" 
So  turning  to  the  ruddy  flood  of  light, 
Up  the  huge  steps  he  toiled  unto  the  hall  ; 
But  even  as  his  eager  foot  did  fall 
Upon  the  threshold,  such  a  mocking  shout 
Rang  in  his  ears  as  yEtna  sendeth  out 
When,  at  the  day's  end,  round  the  stithy  cold 
The  Cyclops  some  unmeasured  banquet  hold. 
And  monstrous  men  could  he  see  sitting  there, 
Burnt  by  the  sun,  with  length  of  straight  back  hair, 
And  taller  far  than  men  are  wont  to  be ; 
And  at  a  gold-strewn  da'is  could  he  see 
A  mighty  King,  a  fearful  man  to  face, 
Brown-skinned  and  black -haired,  of  the  giants'  race, 
Who,  seeing  him,  with  thundering  voice  'gan  call, 
"  O  stranger,  come  forthwith  into  the  hall, 
Atlas  would  see  thee !  "     Forth  stood  Perseus  then, 
And  going  'twixt  the  rows  of  uncouth  men 
Seemed  but  a  pygmy  ;  but  his  heart  was  great, 
And  vain  is  might  against  the  stroke  of  fate. 

Then  the  King  cried,  "Who  art  thou,  little  one? 
Surely  in  thy  land  weak  must  be  the  sun 
If  there  are  bred  such  tender  folk  as  thou  : 
May  the  gods  grant  such  men  are  few  enow ! 
Art  thou  a  king's  son  ?  "     Loud  he  laughed  withal, 
And  shouts  of  laughter  rang  throughout  the  hall, 
Like  clattering  thunder  on  a  July  night. 
But  Perseus  quailed  not.      "  Little  were  my  might," 
He  said,  "if  helpless  on  the  earth  I  were; 
But  to  the  equal  gods  my  life  is  dear, 
And  certes  victoiy  over  Jove's  own  son 
By  earthly  men  shall  not  be  lightly  won." 


THE  DOOM  OF  KING  ACRISIUS.          171 

So  spake  he,  moving  inward  from  the  door, 
But  louder  laughed  the  black  King  than  before, 
And  all  his  people  shouted  at  his  beck  ; 
Therewith  lie  cried,  "  Break  now  this  Prince's  neck, 
And  take  him  forth  and  hang  him  up  straightway 
Before  my  door,  that  henceforth  from  this  day 
Pygmies  and  jesters  may  take  better  heed, 
Lest  at  our  hands  they  gain  a  liar's  meed." 

Then  started  up  two  huge  men  from  the  board, 
And  Perseus,  seeing  them  come,  half  drew  his  sword, 
Looking  this  way  and  that ;  but  in  a  while, 
Upon  his  wallet  with  a  deadly  smile 
He  set  his  hand,  and  forth  the  head  he  drew, 
Dead,  white  midst  golden  hair,  where  serpents  blue 
Yet  dangled  dead ;  and  ere  they  stooped  to  take 
His  outstretched  arms,  before  them  he  did  shake 
The  dreadful  thing  :  then  stopped  they  suddenly, 
Stone  dead,  without  a  wound  or  any  cry. 

Then  toward  the  King  he  held  aloft  the  head, 
And  as  he  stiffened  cried  at  him,  and  said, 
"  O  King  !  when  such  a  gift  I  bring  to  thee, 
Wilt  thou  be  dumb  and  neither  hear  nor  see  ? 
Listen  how  sing  thy  men,  and  in  thy  hall 
How  swift  the  merry  dancers'  feet  do  fall ! " 

For  now  these,  thinking  him  some  god  to  be, 
Cried  in  their  fear,  and  made  great  haste  to  flee, 
Crowding  about  the  great  doors  of  the  hall, 
Until  not  one  was  left  of  gre^t  or  small, 
But  the  dead  King,  and  those  that  there  had  died.  — 
Lo,  in  such  way  Medusa's  head  was  tried  ! 

But  when  the  living  giant-folk  were  gone, 
And  with  the  dead  men  there  he  stood  alone, 
He  turned  him  to  the  food  that  thereby  lay, 
And  ate  and  drank  with  none  to  say  him  nay  ; 
And  on  the  floor  at  last  he  laid  him  down, 
Midst  heaps  of  unknown  tawny  skins  and  brown. 

There  all  the  night  in  dreamless  sleep  he  lay, 
But  rose  again  at  the  first  streak  of  day, 
And  looking  round  about  rejoiced  to  see 
Trie  uncouth  image  of  his  enemy, 
Silent  forever,  with  wide  mouth  agape 
E'en  as  he  died ;  and  thought,  "  Who  now  shall  'scape 
When  I  am  angry,  while  this  gift  I  have  ? 
How  well  my  needy  lovers  I  may  save 
While  this  dread  thing  still  hangeth  by  my  side  !  " 

Then  out  he  passed  :  a  plain  burnt  up,  and  wide, 


172  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

He  saw  before  him,  bare  of  any  trees, 
And  much  he  longed  for  the  green  dashing  seas, 
And  merry  winds  of  the  sweet  island  shore, 
Fain  of  the  gull's  cry,  for  the  lion's  roar. 
Yet,  glad  at  heart,  he  lifted  up  his  feet 
From  the  parched  earth,  and  soon  the  air  did  beat, 
Going  northeast,  and  flew  forth  all  the  day, 
And  when  the  night  fell  still  was  on  the  way  ; 
And  many  a  sandy  plain  did  he  pass  o'er, 
And  many  a  dry  much-trodden  river-shore, 
Where  thick  the  thirsty  beasts  stood  in  the  night 
The  stealthy  leopard  saw  him  with  afright, 
As  whining  from  the  thicket  it  crept  out ; 
The  lion  drew  back  at  his  sudden  shout 
From  off  the  carcass  of  some  slaughtered  beast ; 
And  the  thin  jackals  waiting  for  the  feast 
Stinted  their  hungry  howls  as  he  passed  by  ; 
And  black  men,  sleeping,  as  he  came  anigh 
Dreamed  ugly  dreams,  and  reached  their  hands  to  seize 
The  spear  or  sword  that  lay  across  their  knees. 

So  at  the  last  the  sea  before  him  lay, 
And  yet,  therefore,  he  made  not  any  stay, 
But  flew  on  till  the  night  began  to  wane, 
And  the  gray  sea  was  blue  and  green  again  ; 
Until  the  sunlight  on  his  wings  shone  fair, 
And  turned  to  red  the  gold  locks  of  his  hair. 
Then  in  a  little  while  he  saw  no  land, 
But  all  was  heaving  sea  on  every  hand, 
Driven  this  way  and  that  way  by  the  wind. 

Still  fast  he  flew,  thinking  some  coast  to  find, 
And  so,  about  the  middle  of  the  day, 
Far  to  the  east  a  land  before  him  lay, 
And  when  unto  it  he  was  come  anigh 
He  saw  the  sea  beat  on  black  cliffs  and  high, 
"With  green  grass  growing  on  the  tops  of  them, 
Binding  them  round  as  gold  a  garment's  hem. 

Then  slowly  alongside  thereof  he  flew 
If  haply  by  some  sign  the  land  he  knew, 
Until  a  ness  he  reached,  whereon  there  stood 
A  tower  new  built  of  mighty  beams  of  wood  ; 
So  nigh  he  came  that,  unseen,  he  could  see 
Pale,  haggard  faces  peering  anxiously    " 
From  out  its  well-barred  windows  that  looked  forth 
Into  a  bay  that  lay  upon  the  north ; 


THE  DOOM  OF  KING  ACRISIUS.  173 

But  inland  over  moveless  waves  of  down 

Shone  the  white  walls  of  some  great  royal  town. 

Now  underneath  the  scarped  cliffs  of  the  bay 

From  horn  to  horn  a  belt  of  sand  there  lay 

Fast  lessening  as  the  flood-tide  swallowed  it, 

There  all  about  did  the  sea-swallows  flit, 

And  from  the  black  rocks  yellow  hawks  flew  down, 

And  cormorants  fished  amidst  the  sea-weed  brown, 

Or  on  the  low  rocks  nigh  unto  the  sea, 

While  over  all  the  fresh  wind  merrily 

Blew  from  the  sea,  and  o'er  the  pale  blue  sky 

Thin  clouds  were  stretched  the  way  the  wind  went  by, 

And  forward  did  the  mighty  waters  press 

As  though  they  loved  the  green  earth's  steadfastness. 

Naught  slept,  but  everything  was  bright  and  fair 

Beneath  the  bright  sun  and  the  noon-day  air. 

Now  hovering  there,  he  seemed  to  hear  a  sound 
Unlike  the  sea-bird's  cry,  and,  looking  round, 
He  saw  a  figure  standing  motionless 
Beneath  the  cliff,  midway  'twixt  ness  and  ness, 
And  as  the  wind  lulled  heard  that  cry  again, 
That  sounded  like  the  wail  of  one  in  pain  ; 
Wondering  thereat,  and  seeking  marvels  new, 
He  lighted  down,  and  toward  the  place  he  drew, 
And,  made  invisible  by  Pallas'  aid, 
He  came  within  the  scarped  cliff's  purple  shade, 
And  found  a  woman  standing  lonely  there, 
Naked,  except  for  tresses  of  her  hair 
That  o'er  her  white  limbs  by  the  breeze  were  wound, 
And  brazen  chains  her  weary  arms  that  bound 
Unto  the  sea-beat  overhanging  rock, 
As  though  her  golden-crowned  head  to  mock. 
But  nigh  her  feet  upon  the  sand  there  lay 
Rich  raiment  that  had  covered  her  that  day, 
Worthy  to  be  the  ransom  of  a  king, 
Unworthy  round  such  loveliness  to  cling. 

Alas,  alas !  no  bridal  play  this  was, 
The  tremors  that  throughout  her  limbs  did  pass, 
Her  restless  eyes,  the  catching  of  her  breath, 
Were  but  the  work  of  the  cold  hand  of  death, 
She  waited  for,  midst  untold  miseries, 
As,  now  with  head  cast  back,  and  close-shut  eyes 
She  wailed  aloud,  and  now  all  spent  with  woe 
Stared  out  across  the  rising  sea,  as  though 
She  deemed  each  minute  brought  the  end  anigh 
For  which  in  her  despair  she  needs  must  cry. 


174  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Then  unseen  Perseus  stole  anigh  the  maid, 
And  love  upon  his  heart  a  soft  hand  laid, 
And  tender  pity  rent  it  for  her  pain, 
Nor  yet  an  eager  cry  could  he  refrain, 
As  now,  transformed  by  that  piteous  sight, 
Grown  like  unto  a  god  for  pride  and  might, 
Down  on  the  sand  the  mystic  cap  he  cast 
And  stood  before  her  with  flushed  face  at  last, 
And  gray  eyes  glittering  with  his  great  desire 
Beneath  his  hair,  that  like  a  harmless  fire 
Blown  by  the  wind  shone  in  her  hopeless  eyes. 

But  she,  all  rigid  with  her  first  surprise, 
Ceasing  her  wailing  as  she  heard  his  cry, 
Stared  at  him,  dumb  with  fear  and  misery, 
Shrunk  closer  yet  unto  the  rocky  place 
And  writhed  her  bound  hands  as  to  hide  her  face  ; 
But  sudden  love  his  heart  did  so  constrain, 
With  open  mouth  he  strove  to  speak  in  vain, 
And  from  his  heart  the  hot  tears  'gan  to  rise ; 
But  she  midst  fear  beheld  his  kind  gray  eyes, 
And  then,  as  hope  came  glimmering  through  her  dread,' 
In  a  weak  voice  he  scarce  could  hear,  she  said, 
"  O  Death !  if  thou  hast  risen  from  the  sea, 
Sent  by  the  gods  to  end  this  misery, 
I  thank  them  that  thou  comest  in  this  form, 
Who  rather  thought  to  see  a  hideous  worm 
Come  trailing  up  the  sands  from  out  the  deep, 
Or  suddenly  swing  over  from  the  steep, 
To  lap  me  in  his  folds,  and  bone  by  bone 
Crush  all  my  body  :  come  then,  with  no  moan, 
Will  I  make  ready  now  to  leave  the  light. 

"  But  yet  - —  thy  face  is  wonderful  and  bright ; 
Art  thou  a  god  ?     Ah,  then  be  kind  to  me  ! 
Is  there  no  valley  far  off  from  the  sea 
Where  I  may  live  alone,  afar  from  strife 
Nor  anger  any  god  with  my  poor  life  ? 
Or  do  the  gods  delight  in  misery 
And  art  thou  come  to  mock  me  ere  I  die  ? 
Alas,  must  they  be  pitiless,  when  they 
Fear  not  the  hopeless  slayer  of  the  day  ! 
Speak,  speak  !  what  meanest  thou  by  that  sad  smile  ? 

"  O,  if  the  gods  could  be  but  men  awhile 
And  learn  such  fearful  things  unspeakable 
As  I  have  learned  this  morn,  what  man  can  tell 
What  golden  age  might  wrap  the  world  again  — 
Ah,  dost  tbou  love  me,  is  my  speech  not  vain  ? 


THE  DOOM  OF  KING  ACRISIUS.  175 

Did  not  my  beauty  perish  on  this  mom, 
Dost  thou  not  kiss  me  now  for  very  scorn  ? 
Alas,  my  shame,  I  cannot  flee  from  thee ! 
Alas,  my  sin  !  no  green-stemmed  laurel-tree 
Shall  mock  thy  grasp,  no  misty  mountain  stream 
Shall  wake  thee  shuddering  from  a  lovely  dream, 
No  helping  god  shall  hear,  but  thou  alone  !  — 
Help  me,  I  faint !  I  see  not !  art  thou  gone  ? 
Alas !  thy  lips  were  warm  upon  my  brow, 
What  good  deed  will  it  be  to  leave  me  now  ! 

"  O,  yet  I  feel  thy  kind  and  tender  hand 
On  my  chained  wrist,  and  thou  wilt  find  some  land 
Where  I  may  live  a  little,  free  from  fear  ? 

' '  And  yet,  and  yet,  if  thou  hast  sought  me  here 
Being  but  a  man,  no  manly  thing  it  is, 
Nor  hope  thou  from  henceforth  to  live  in  bliss, 
If  here  thou  wrongest  me,  v/ho  am  but  dead." 

Then  as  she  might  she  hung  adown  her  head, 
Her  bosom  heaved  with  sobs,  and  from  her  eyes 
Long  dried  amidst  those  hopeless  miseries 
Unchecked  the  salt  tears  o'er  her  bosom  ran 
As  love  and  shame  their  varying  strife  began. 

But  overwhelmed  with  pity,  mad  with  love, 
Stammering,  nigh  weeping,  spoke  the  son  of  Jove,  — 
"Alas,  what  land  is  this,  where  such  as  thou 
Are  thus  tormented  ?  look  upon  me  now, 
And  cease  thy  fear !  no  evil  man  am  I, 
No  cruel  god  to  mock  thy  misery  ; 
But  the  gods  help  me,  and  their  unmoved  will 
Has  sent  me  here  to  save  thee  from  some  ill, 
I  know  not  what  ;  to  give  thee  rest  from  this, 
And  unto  me  unutterable  bliss, 
If  from  a  man  thou  takest  not  away 
The  gift  thou  gavest  to  a  god  to-day  ; 
But  I  may  be  a  very  god  to  thee, 
Because  the  gods  are  helpful  unto  me, 
Nor  would  I  fear  them  aught  if  thou  wert  nigh, 
Since  unto  each  it  happeneth  once  to  die. 

"  Speak  not,  sweet  maid,  till  I  have  loosed  thine  hands 
From  out  the  grasp  of  these  unworthy  bands. " 

So  straight,  and  ere  her  lips  could  frame  a  word, 
From  out  its  sheath  he  drew  the  gleaming  sword, 
And  while  she  shut  her  dazzled  eyes  for  fear 
To  see  the  glittering  marvel  draw  anear, 
Unto  her  side  her  weary  arms  fell  freed  ; 
Then  must  she  shrink  away,  for  now  indeed 


1 76  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

With  rest  and  hope  and  growing  love  there  came 
Remembrance  of  her  helplessness  and  shame. 
Weeping  she  said,  "  My  fate  is  but  to  die, 
Forget  the  wild  words  of  my  misery, 
Take  a  poor  maiden's  thanks,  and  leave  this  place, 
Nor  for  thy  pity  die  before  my  face, 
As  verily  thou  wilt  if  thou  stay'st  here ; 
Because,  however  free  thou  art  from  fear, 
What  hopest  thou  against  this  beast  to  do, 
My  death,  and  thine  unconquerable  foe  ? 
When  all  a  kingdom's  strength  has  had  no  hope 
With  this  strange  horror,  God -endowed,  to  cope, 
But  deemed  it  good  to  give  up  one  poor  maid 
Unto  his  wrath,  who  makes  the  world  afraid." 

"  Nay,"  said  he,  "  but  thy  fate  shall  be  my  fate, 
And  on  these  sands  thy  bane  will  I  await, 
Though  I  know  naught  of  all  his  mightiness  ; 
For  scarcely  yet  a  man,  I  none  the  less 
Such  things  have  done  as  make  me  now  a  name, 
Nor  can  I  live  a  loveless  life  of  shame, 
Or  leave  thee  now,  this  day's  most  god-like  gain, 
To  suffer  some  unknown  and  mortal  pain. " 

She,  hurrying  as  he  spoke,  with  trembling  hands 
Had  lifted  up  her  raiment  from  the  sands, 
And  yet  therewith  she  was  not  well  arrayed. 
Before  she  turned  round,  ghastly  white,  and  said, 
"Look  seaward  and  behold  my  death  draw  nigh, 
Not  thine  —  not  thine  —  but  kiss  me  ere  I  die  ; 
Alas  !  how  many  things  I  had  to  tell, 
For  certainly  I  should  have  loved  thee  well." 

He  came  to  her  and  kissed  her  as  she  sank 
Into  his  arms,  and  from  the  horror  shrank, 
Clinging  to  him,  scarce  knowing  he  was  there  ; 
But  through  the  drifting  wonder  of  her  hair, 
Amidst  his  pity,  he  beheld  the  sea, 
And  saw  a  huge  wave  rising  mightily 
Above  the  smaller  breakers  of  the  shore, 
Which  in  its  green  breast  for  a  minute  bore 
A  nameless  horror,  that  it  cast  aland, 
And  left,  a  huge  mass  on  the  oozing  sand, 
That  scarcely  seemed  a  living  thing  to  be, 
Until  at  last  those  twain  it  seemed  to  see, 
And,  gathering  up  its  strange  limbs,  towards  them  passed. 
And  therewithal  a  dismal  trumpet-blast 
Rang  from  the  tower,  and  from  the  distant  town 
The  wind  in  answer  brought  loud  wails  adown. 


THE  DOOM  OF  KING  ACRISIUS.  177 

Then  Perseus  gently  put  the  maid  from  him, 
Who  sank  down  shivering  in  her  every  limb, 
Silent  despite  herself  for  fear  and  woe, 
As  down  the- beach  he  ran  to  meet  the  foe. 

But  he,  beholding  Jove's  son  drawing  near, 
A  great  black  fold  against  him  did  uprear, 
Maned  with  gray  tufts  of  hair,  as  some  old  tree 
Hung  round  with  moss,  in  lands  where  vapors  be ; 
From  his  bare  skull  his  red  eyes  glowed  like  flame, 
And  from  his  open  mouth  a  sound  there  came, 
Strident  and  hideous,  that  still  louder  grew 
As  that  rare  sight  of  one  in  arms  he  knew  : 
But  godlike,  fearless,  burning  with  desire, 
The  adamant  jaws  and  lidless  eyes  of  fire 
Did  Perseus  mock,  and  lightly  leapt  aside 
As  forward  did  the  torture-chamber  glide 
Of  his  huge  head,  and  ere  the  beast  could  turn, 
One  moment  bright  did  blue-edged  Herpe  burn, 
The  next  was  quenched  in  the  black  flow  of  blood  ; 
Then  in  confused  folds  the  hero  stood, 
His  bright  face  shadowed  by  the  jaws  of  death, 
His  hair  blown  backward  by  the  poisonous  breath  ; 
But  all  that  passed,  like  lightning-lighted  street 
In  the  dark  night,  as  the  blue  blade  did  meet 
The  wrinkled  neck,  and  with  no  faltering  stroke, 
Like  a  god's  hand  the  fell  enchantment  broke, 
And  then  again  in  place  of  crash  and  roar, 
He  heard  the  shallow  breakers  on  the  shore, 
"And  o'er  his  head  the  sea-gull's  plaintive  cry, 
Careless  as  gods  for  who  might  live  or  die. 

Then  Perseus  from  the  slimy  loathsome  coil 
Drew  out  his  feet,  and  then  with  little  toil 
Smote  off  the  head,  the  terror  of  the  lands, 
And,  dragging  it  along,  went  up  the  sands, 
Shouting  aloud  for  joy,  "  Arise,  arise, 
O  thou  whose  name  I  know  not !     Ope  thine  eyes 
Tq  see  the  gift,  that  I,  first  seen  to-day, 
Am  hastening  now  before  thy  feet  to  lay  ! 
Look  up,  look  up !     What  shall  thy  sweet  face  be, 
That  I  have  seen  amidst  such  misery, 
When  thou  at  last  beginnest  to  rejoice  ?  " 

Slowly  she  rose,  her  burdened  heart  found  voice 
In  sobs  and  murmurs  inarticulate, 
And,  clean  forgetting  all  the  sport  of  fate, 
She  scarce  could  think  that  she  should  ever  die, 
12 


178  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

As  locked  in  fearless,  loving,  strait  embrace, 
They  made  a  heaven  of  that  lone  sandy  place. 

Then  on  a  rock  smoothed  by  the  washing  sea 
They  sat,  and  eyed  each  other  lovingly. 
And  few  words  at  the  first  the  maiden  said, 
So  wrapped  she  was  in  all  the  goodlihead 
Of  her  new  life  made  doubly  happy  now  : 
For  her  alone  the  sea-breeze  seemed  to  blow, 
For  her  in  music  did  the  white  surf  fall, 
For  her  alone  the  wheeling  birds  did  call 
Over  the  shallows,  and  the  sky  for  her 
Was  set  with  white  clouds,  far  away  and  clear ; 
E'en  as  her  love,  this  strong  and  lovely  one 
Who  held  her  hand,  was  but  for  her  alone. 

But  after  loving  silence  for  a  while, 
She,  turning  round  to  him  her  heavenly  smile, 
Said,  "  Tell  me,  O  my  love,  what  name  is  thine, 
What  mother  brought  thee  forth  so  nigh  divine, 
Whence  art  thou  come  to  take  away  my  shame  ?  " 

Then  said  he,  "  Fair  love,  Perseus  is  my  name, 
Not  known  of  men,  though  that  may  come  to  be  j 
And  her  that  bore  me  men  call  Danae, 
And  tales  of  my  begetting  people  tell 
And  call  my  father  Jove  :  but  it  befell 
Unto  my  mother,  when  I  first  was  born, 
That  she,  cast  out  upon  the  sea,  forlorn 
Of  help  of  men,  unto  Seriphos  came  ; 
And  there  she  dwells  as  now,  not  gathering  shame, 
But  called  a  Queen  ;  and  thence  I  come  indeed, 
Sent  by  the  gods  to  help  thee  in  thy  need." 

Then  he  began  and  told  her  everything 
Down  to  the  slaying  of  the  monstrous  king, 
She  listening  to  him  meanwhile,  glad  at  heart 
That  he  had  played  so  fair  and  great  a  part. 
But  all  being  told,  she  said,  "  This  salt  pool  nigh 
Left  by  the  tide,  now  mirrors  well  the  sky, 
So  smooth  it  is,  and  now  I  stand  anear 
Canst  thou  not  see  my  foolish  visage  clear, 
Yea,  e'en  the  little  gems  upon  my  hands  ? 
May  I  not  see  this  marvel  of  the  lands 
So  mirrored,  and  yet  live  ?  —  make  no  delay, 
.  The  sea  is  pouring  fast  into  the  bay, 
And  we  must  soon  be  gone." 

"  Look  down,"  he  said, 

' '  And  take  good  heed  thou  turnest  not  thine  head. " 
Then  gazing  down,  with  shuddering  dread  and  awe, 


THE  DOOM  OF  KING  ACRISIUS.  179 

Over  her  imaged  shoulder,  soon  she  saw 

The  head  rise  up,  so  beautiful  and  dread, 

That,  white  and  ghastly,  yet  seemed  scarcely  dead 

Beside  the  image  of  her  own  fair  face, 

As,  daring  not  to  move  from  off  the  place, 

But  trembling  sore,  she  cried,  "  Enough,  O  love  ! 

What  man  shall  doubt  thou  art  the  son  of  Jove  ? 

I  think  thou  wilt  not  die  "  :  then  with  her  hand 

She  hid  her  eyes,  and  trembling  did  she  stand 

Until  she  felt  his  lips  upon  her  cheek  ; 

Then  turning  round,  with  anxious  eyes  and  meek, 

She  gazed  upon  him,  and  some  doubtful  thought 

Up  to  her  brow  the  tender  color  brought, 

And  sinking  somewhat  down  her  golden  head, 

Stammering  a  little  now  these  words  she  said,  — 

"  O  godlike  man,  thou  dost  not  ask  my  name, 
Or  why  folk  gave  me  up  to  death  and  shame ; 
Dost  thou  not  dread  I  am  some  sorceress, 
Whose  evil  deeds  well  earned  me  that  distress  ?  " 

"  Tell  me  thy  name,"  he  said  ;  "yet  as  for  thee 
I  deem  that  thou  wert  bound  beside  the  sea, 
Because  the  gods  would  have  the  dearest  thing 
Thy  land  possessed  for  its  own  ransoming. " 

She  said,  "  O  love,  the  sea  is  rising  fast, 
And  time  it  is  that  we  henceforth  were  passed ; 
The  only  path  that  leadeth  to  the  down 
Is  far,  and  thence  a  good  way  is  the  town  ; 
Come  then,  and  on  our  journey  will  I  tell 
How  all  these  things,  now  come  to  naught,  befell." 

"  Lead  me,"  he  said,  and  lifted  from  the  sand 
The  monster's  head  ;  and  therewith,  hand  in  hand, 
Together  underneath  the  cliffs  they  went, 
The  while  she  told  her  tale  to  this  intent. 

"  This  is  the  Syrian  land,  this  town  anigh 
Is  Joppa,  and  Andromeda  am  I, 
Daughter  of  him  who  holds  the  sceptre  there, 
King_  Cepheus,  and  Cassiope  the  fair. 

She,  smit  by  cruel  madness,  brought  ill  fate, 
Upon  the  land  to  make  it  desolate  ; 
For  by  the  place  whence  thou  deliveredst  me, 
An  altar  to  the  daughters  of  the  sea 
Erewhile  there  stood,  and  we  in  solemn  wise, 
Unto  the  maids  were  wont  to  sacrifice, 
And  give  them  gifts  of  honey,  oil,  and  wine, 
That  we  might  have  the  love  of  folk  divine  ; 


l8o  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And  so  it  chanced  that  on  a  certain  day, 
When  from  that  place  the  sea  was  ebbed  away, 
Upon  the  firm  sands  I  and  many  a  maid 
About  that  altar  went,  while  the  flutes  played 
Such  notes  as  sea-folk  love  ;  and  as  we  went 
Upon  the  wind  rich  incense-clouds  we  sent 
About  the  hallowed  stone,  whereon  there  lay 
Fruits  of  the  earth  for  them  to  bear  away ; 
Thus  did  we  maids,  as  we  were  wont  to  do, 
And  watching  us,  as  was  their  wont  also, 
Our  mothers  stood,  my  own  amidst  the  rest 

"  But  ere  the  rites  were  done,  as  one  possessed 
She  cried  aloud,  '  Alas,  what  do  we  now, 
Such  honor  unto  unseen  folk  to  show ! 
To  spend  our  goods,  our  labor,  and  our  lives, 
In  serving  these  the  careless  sea-wind  drives 
Hither  and  thither  through  the  booming  seas  ; 
While  thou,  Andromeda,  art  queen  of  these, 
And  in  thy  limbs  such  lovely  godhead  moves, 
That  thou  shalt  be  new  Mother  of  the  Loves  ; 
Thou  shalt  not  die  !     Go,  child,  and  sit  alone, 
And  take  our  homage  on  thy  golden  throne  ; 
And  I  that  bore  thee  will  but  be  thy  slave, 
Nor  shall  another  any  worship  have.' 

' '  Trembling  awhile  we  stood  with  heads  downcast, 
To  hear  those  words,  then  from  the  beach  we  passed ; 
And  sick  at  heart  each  went  unto  her  home 
Expecting  when  the  fearful  death  should  come, 
Like  those  of  Thebes,  who,  smit  by  arrows,  fell 
Before  the  feet  of  her  who  loved  too  well. 

"  And  yet  stayed  not  my  mother's  madness  there  ; 
She  caused  men  make  a  silver  image  fair 
Of  me  unhappy,  round  the  base  she  writ 
'  Fairest  of  all ^  and  bade  men  carry  it, 
With  flowers  and  music,  down  unto  the  sea, 
Who  on  the  altar  fixed  it  solidly 
Against  the  beating  of  the  winds  and  waves. 

"  But  we,  expecting  now  no  quiet  graves, 
Trembled  at  every  murmur  of  the  night, 
And  if  a  cloud  should  hide  the  noon  sun  bright 
Grew  faint  with  terror  ;  yet  the  days  went  by 
Harmless  above  our  great  iniquity, 
Until  one  wretched  morn  I  woke  to  hear 
Down  in  the  street  loud  wails  and  cries  of  fear, 
And  my  heart  died  within  me,  nor  durst  I 
Ask  for  the  reason  of  that  bitter  cry, 


THE  DOOM  OF  KING  ACRISIUS.  181 

Though  soon  I  knew  it,  —  nigh  unto  the  sea 
Were  gathered  folk  for  some  festivity  ; 
When,  at  the  happiest  moment  of  their  feast, 
Forth  from  the  deep  there  came  a  fearful  beast 
No  man  could  name,  who  quickly  snatched  away 
Their  fairest  maid,  and  with  small  pain  did  slay 
Such  men  as  there  in  arms  before  him  stood ; 
For  unto  him  was  steel  as  rotten  wood, 
And  darts  as  straw,  —  nor  grew  the  story  old, 
Day  after  day  e'en  such  a  tale  was  told. 
—  Kiss  me,  my  love  !  I  grow  afraid  again ; 
Kiss  me  amid  the  memory  of  my  pain. 
Draw  me  to  thee,  that  I  thine  arms  may  feel, 
A  better  help  than  triple  brass  or  steel ! 

"  Alas,  love !  folk  began  to  look  on  me 
With  angry  eyes,  and  mutter  gloomily, 
As  pale  and  trembling  through  the  streets  I  passed ; 
And  from  the  heavy  thunder-cloud  at  last 
The  dreadful  lightning  quivered  through  the  air  : 
For  on  a  day  the  people  filled  the  square 
With  arms  and  tumult,  and  my  name  I  heard, 
But  heard  no  more  ;  for,  shuddering  and  afeard, 
Unto  my  far-off  quiet  bower  I  fled, 
And  from  that  moment  deemed  myself  but  dead. 
How  the  time  passed  I  know  not,  what  they  did 
I  know  not  now  ;  for  like  a  quail  half  hid, 
When  the  hawk's  pinions  shade  the  sun  from  him, 
Crouching  adown,  I  felt  my  life  wax  dim. 

' '  The  gods  have  made  us  mighty  certainly 
That  we  can  bear  such  things  and  yet  not  die. 
This  morn  —  Ah,  love,  and  was  it  yet  this  year, 
Wherein  thou  earnest  to  me,  kind  and  dear  ?  — 
This  morn  they  brought  me  forth,  they  did  on  me 
This  mocking  raiment  bright  with  bravery ; 
They  mocked  my  head  with  gold,  with  gems  my  feet, 
My  heart  with  lovely  songs  and  music  sweet 
Thou  wouldst  have  wept  to  see  me  led  along 
Amidst  that  dreary  pomp  with  flowers  and  song, 
But  if  folk  wept,  how  could  I  note  it  then? 
Most  vain  to  me  were  grown  all  ways  of  men. 

"  They  brought  me  to  mine  image  on  the  sands, 
They  took  it  down,  they  bore  it  in  their  hands 
To  deck  mine  empty  tomb,  I  think,  and  then  — 
O.  cruel  is  the  fearfulness  of  men, 
Striving  a  little  while  to  'scape  death's  pain  !  — 
My  naked  body  they  spared  not  to  chain, 


1 82  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Lest  I  should  'scape  the  death  from  which  they  fled, 
Then  left  me  there  alone  and  shamed  —  and  dead  — 
While  to  his  home  each  went  again,  to  live 
Such  vain  forgetful  life  as  fate  might  give. 

"  O  love,  to  think  that  love  can  pass  away, 
That,  soon  or  late,  to  us  shall  come  a  day 
When  this  shall  be  forgotten  !  e'en  this  kiss 
That  makes  us  now  forget  the  high  God's  bliss, 
And  sons  of  men  with  all  their  miseries. " 

"  Turn  round,"  he  said,  "  and  let  your  well -loved  eyes 
Behold  the  sea  from  this  high  grassy  hill, 
And  thou  shall  see  the  risen  waves  now  fill 
The  bay  from  horn  to  horn  of  it :  no  more 
Thy  footprints  bless  the  shell-strewn  sandy  shore, 
The  vale  the  monster  scooped  as  'neath  my  sword 
He  writhed,  the  black  stream  that  from  out  him  poured, 
The  rock  we  sat  on,  and  the  pool  wherein 
Thou  sawest  the  gods'  revenge  for  heedless  sin  — 
How  the  green  ripples  of  the  shallow  sea 
Cover  the  strife  and  passion  peacefully, 
Nor  lack  the  hallowing  of  the  low  broad  sun. 

"  So  has  love  stolen  upon  us,  lovely  one, 
And  quenched  our  old  lives  in  this  new  delight, 
And  if  thou  needs  must  think  of  that  dull  night 
That  creepeth  on  no  otherwise  than  this, 
Yet  for  that  thought  hold  closer  to  thy  bliss, 
Come  nigher,  come  !  forget  the  more  thy  pain." 

So  there  of  all  love's  feasting  were  they  fain, 
Words  fail  to  tell  the  joyance  that  they  had, 
And  with  what  words  they  made  each  other  glad. 


SO,  as  it  drew  to  ending  of  the  day, 
Unto  the  city  did  they  take  their  way, 
And  when  they  stood  before  its  walls  at  last 
They  found  the  heavy  gate  thereof  shut  fast, 
And  no  one  on  the  walls  for  very  shame  ; 
Then  to  the  wicket  straightway  Perseus  came, 
And  down  the  monster's  grinning  head  he  threw, 
While  on  the  horn  a  mighty  blast  he  blew, 
But  no  one  answered  ;  then  he  cried  aloud, 
"  Come  forth,  O  warders,  and  no  more  shrink  cowed 
Behind  your  battlements  !  one  man  alone 


THE  DOaM  OF  KING  ACRIS1US.  183 

Has  dared  to  do  what  thousands  have  not  done, 
And  the  great  beast  beside  the  sea  lies  dead  : 
Come  forth,  come  forth !  and  gaze  upon  this  head  ! " 

Then  opened  was  the  door  a  little  way, 
And  one  peered  forth  and  saw  him  with  the  may, 
And  turning  round  some  joyous  words  he  cried 
Unto  the  rest,  who  oped  the  great  gates  wide, 
And  through  them  Perseus  the  saved  maiden  led. 
Then  as  the  folk  cast  eyes  upon  the  head, 
They  stopped  their  shouts  to  gaze  thereon  with  fear, 
And  timidly  the  women  drew  anear ; 
But  soon,  beholding  Perseus'  godlike  grace, 
His  mighty  limbs,  and  flushed  and  happy  face, 
Cried  out  unto  the  maid,  "  O  happy  thou, 
Who  art  well  paid  for  every  trouble  now, 
In  winning  such  a  godlike  man  as  this." 
And  many  there  were  fain  his  skirts  to  kiss ; 
But  he  smiled  down  on  them,  and  said,  "  Rejoice, 
O  girls,  indeed,  but  yet  lift  heart  and  voice 
Unto  the  gods  to-day,  and  not  to  me  ! 
For  they  it  was  who  sent  me  to  this  sea. 
And  first  of  all  fail  not  to  bless  the  Maid 
Through  whom  it  came  that  I  was  not  afraid." 

So  through  the  streets  they  went,  and  quickly  spread 
News  that  the  terror  of  the  land  was  dead. 
And  folk  thronged  round  to  see  the  twain  go  by, 
Or  went  before  with  flowers  and  minstrelsy, 
Rejoicing  for  the  slaying  of  their  shame. 

Thus  harbingered  the  happy  lovers  came 
Unto  King  Cepheus'  royal  house  of  gold. 
To  whom  by  this  the  joyful  cries  had  told 
That  all  was  changed  and  still  his  days  were  good, 
So,  eager  in  his  well-built  porch  he  stood, 
No  longer  now  in  mournful  raiment  clad. 

But  when  they  met,  then  were  those  two  more  glad 
Than  words  can  say  ;  there  came  her  mother,  too, 
And  round  about  her  neck  fair  arms  she  threw, 
Weeping  for  joy  ;  and  all  about  the  King 
The  great  men  stood  and  eyed  the  fearful  thing 
That  lay  at  Perseus'  feet :  then  the  King  said, 
"  O  thou,  who  on  this  day  hast  saved  my  maid, 
Wilt  thou  rule  half  my  kingdom  from  to-day  ? 
Or  wilt  thou  carry  half  my  wealth  away  ? 
Or  in  some  temple  shall  we  honor  thee, 
Setting  thine  image  up  beside  the  sea  ? 


1 84  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Ask  what  thou  wilt  before  these  mighty  lords, 
And. straightway  is  it  thine  without  more  words." 

Then  in  his  heart  laughed  Perseus :  and,  "  O  King,' 
He  said,  "  I  ask  indeed  a  mighty  thing ; 
Yet  neither  will  I  take  thy  wealth  away, 
Or  make  thee  less  a  king  than  on  this  day, 
And  in  no  temple  shall  mine  image  stand 
To  look  upon  the  sea  that  beats  this  land, 
For  fear  the  God  who  now  is  friend  to  me 
Thereby  should  come  to  be  mine  enemy  ; 
And  yet  on  this  day  am  I  grown  so  bold, 
I  ask  a  greater  gift  than  power  or  gold  ; 
Give  me  thy  maiden  saved,  to  be  my  bride, 
And  let  me  go,  because  the  world  is  wide, 
And  the  gods  hate  me  not,  and  I  am  fain 
Some  fertile  land  with  these  my  hands  to  gain. 
Nor  think  thereby  that  thou  wilt  get  thee  shame, 
For  if  thou  askest  of  my  race  and  name, 
Perseus  I  am,  the  son  of  Danae, 
Born  nigh  to  Argos,  by  the  sounding  sea, 
And  those  that  know  call  me  the  son  of  Jove, 
Who  in  past  days  my  mother's  face  did  love. " 

Then,  glad  at  heart,  the  King  said,  "  Poor  indeed 
Were  such  a  gift,  to  give  thee  to  thy  meed 
This  that  thine  own  unconquered  hands  have  won. 
O  ye  !  bring  now  the  head  and  cast  thereon 
Jewels  and  gold  from  out  my  treasury, 
Till  nothing  of  its  grimness  men  can  see  ; 
And  let  folk  bring  round  to  the  harbor's  mouth 
My  ship  that  saileth  yearly  to  the  south  ; 
That  to  his  own  land,  since  it  is  his  will, 
This  Prince  may  go  ;  nor  yet  without  his  fill 
Of  that  which  all  men  long  for  everywhere, 
Honor,  and  gold,  and  women  kind  and  fair. 
And  ye,  O  lords,  to-morrow  ere  midday, 
Come  hither  to  my  house  in  great  array, 
For  then  this  marriage  will  we  solemnize, 
Appeasing  all  the  gods  with  gifts  of  price." 

Then  loud  all  shouted,  eand  the  end  of  day 
Being  come,  Andromeda  was  led  away 
Unto  her  bower,  and  there  within  a  while 
She  fell  asleep,  and  in  her  sleep  did  smile, 
For  on  the  calm  of  that  forgetfulness 
Her  bliss  some  happy  longings  did  impress. 

But  in  the  Syrian  King's  adorned  hall 
Sat  Perseus  till  the  shadows  'gan  to  fall 


THE  DOOM  OF  KING  ACRISIUS.          185 

Shorter  beneath  the  moon,  and  still  he  thought 
Amid  the  feast  of  what  a  day  had  brought 
Unto  his  heart,  a  foolish  void  before, 
And  for  the  morrow  must  he  long  so  sore 
That  all  those  joyances  and  minstrelsy 
Seemed  unto  him  but  empty  things  to  be. 

Early  next  morn  the  city  was  astir, 
And  country  folk  came  in  from  far  and  near, 
Hearing  the  joyous  tidings  that  the  beast 
Was  dead,  and  fain  to  see  the  marriage  feast, 
And  joyous  folk  wandered  from  street  to  street 
Crowned  with  fair  flowers  and  singing  carols  sweet. 

Then  to  the  maiden's  chamber  maidens  came, 
And  woke  her  up  to  love  and  joyous  shame, 
And  as  the  merry  sun  streamed  through  the  room 
Spread  out  unequalled  marvels  of  the  loom, 
Stored  up  for  such  an  end  in  days  long  done, 
Ere  yet  her  gray  eyes  looked  upon  the  sun, 
Fine  webs  like  woven  mist,  wrought  in  the  dawn, 
Long  ere  the  dew  had  left  the  sunniest  lawn, 
Gold  cloth  so  wrought  that  naught  of  gold  seemed  there, 
But  rather  sunlight  over  blossoms  fair  ; 
You  would  have  said  that  gods  had  made  them,  bright, 
To  hide  her  body  from  the  common  light 
Lest  men  should  die  from  unfulfilled  desire. 

Gems  too  they  showed  wrought  by  the  hidden  fire 
That  eats  the  world,  and  from  the  unquiet  sea 
Pearls  worth  the  ransom  of  an  argosy. 

Yet  all  too  little  all  these  riches  seemed 
In  worship  of  her,  who,  as  one  who  dreamed, 
By  her  fair  maidens'  hands  was  there  arrayed, 
Then,  with  loose  hair,  ungirded  as  a  maid 
Unto  the  threshold  of  the  house  was  brought, 
But  when  her  hand  familiar  fingers  caught 
And  when  that  voice,  that  erst  amidst  her  fear 
She  deemed  a  god's,  now  smote  upon  her  ear 
Like  one  new  born  to  heaven  she  seemed  to  be. 

But  dreamlike  was  the  long  solemnity, 
Unreal  the  joyous  streets,  where  yesterday 
She  passed  half  dead  upon  her  wretched  way  ; 
And  though  before  the  flickering  altar-flame 
She  trembled  when  she  thought  of  that  past  shame, 
And  midst  the  shouting  knit  her  brows  to  think 
Of  what  a  cup  these  men  had  bidden  her  drink, 
Unreal  they  seemed,  forgotten  as  a  tale 


i86  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

We  cannot  tell,  though  it  may  still  avail 

For  pensive  thoughts  betwixt  the  day  and  night. 

All  things  unto  the  gods  were  done  aright ; 
Beside  the  sea  the  flame  and  smoke  uprose 
Over  rich  gifts  of  many  things  to  those 
A  woman's  tongue  had  wounded  ;  golden  veils 
And  images,  and  bowls  wrought  o'er  with  tales, 
By  all  the  altars  of  the  gods  were  laid  ; 
On  this  last  day  of  maidenhood  the  maid 
Had  stood  before  the  shrines,  and  there  had  thrown 
Sweet  incense  on  the  flame,  and  through  the  town 
The  praises  of  immortals  had  been  sung, 
And  sacred  flowers  about  the  houses  hung  ; 
And  now  the  last  hours  of  the  dreamlike  day 
Amid  great  feasting  slowly  passed  away. 

But  in  that  land  there  was  a  mighty  lord, 
To  whom  erewhile  the  King  had  pledged  his  word 
That  he  should  wed  Andromeda,  and  he 
Heard  through  sure  friends  of  this  festivity 
And  raged  thereat,  and  thought  that  eve  to  come 
Unbidden  to  the  feast  and  bear  her  home  ; 
Phineus  his  name  was,  great  amidst  great  men. 

He,  setting  out,  came  to  the  great  hall  when 
The  sun  was  wellnigh  down  ;  all  armed  was  he, 
And  at  his  back  came  on  tumultuously 
His  armed  men-slaves,  and  folk  that  loved  him  dear. 

Beholding  him,  the  King  rose  up  in  fear, 
And  all  about  the  place  scared  folk  uprose 
As  men  surprised  at  feast  by  deadly  foes  ; 
But  Perseus  laughing  said,  "  What  feat  do  ye 
This  eve  in  honor  of  my  sweet  and  me  ? 
Or  are  ye  but  the  servants  of  the  King 
Returned  from  doing  for  him  some  great  thing 
In  a  far  land  ?  then  sit  here  and  be  glad, 
For  on  this  day  the  King  feeds  good  and  bad." 

Then  inarticulate  with  rage  and  grief 
Phineus  turned  on  him,  snatching  at  a  sheaf 
Of  darts  that  hung  against  a  pillar  there, 
And  hurled  one  at  him,  that  sung  through  his  hair 
And  smote  a  serving-man  down  by  his  side  ; 
Then  finding  voice,  he  faced  the  King  and  cried, 
"  What  dost  thou  drinking  with  this  robber  here, 
Who  comes  to  steal  that  which  I  hold  so  dear 
That  on  my  knees  I  prayed  for  her  to  thee  ? 
Speak,  Cepheus !  wilt  thou  give  her  yet  to  me 


THE  DOOM  OF  KING  ACRISIUS.          187 

And  have  good  peace  withal,  or  wilt  thou  die  ? 
Ho,  friends,  and  ye  that  follow,  cry  my  cry  ! " 

Then  straight  the  hall  rang  with  a  mighty  shout 
Of  "  Phineus,"  and  from  sheath  and  belt  leapt  out 
The  gleaming  steel,  and  Cepheus  stammering 
Took  heart  to  say,  ' '  Think  well  upon  this  thing  ; 
What  should  I  do  ?  the  man  did  save  her  life, 
And  her  he  might  have  made  his  slave,  as  wife 
He  asks  for  now  ;  take  gifts  and  go  thy  way, 
Nor  quench  in  blood  the  joyance  of  this  day. " 

Then  forth  stood  Perseus  with  a  frowning  face 
Before  them  all,  and  cried  out  from  his  place, 
"  Get  ye  behind  my  back,  all  friends  to  me ! 
And  ere  the  lamps  are  lighted  ye  shall  see 
A  stranger  thing  than  ye  have  ever  dreamed  "  ; 
And  as  he  spake  in  his  left  hand  there  gleamed 
The  gold-wrought  satchel ;  but  amazed  and  cowed 
Did  the  King's  friends  behind  the  hero  crowd, 
Who,  ere  from  out  the  bag  he  drew  the  head, 
Unto  that  band  of  fierce  new-comers  said  : 
"  Will  ye  have  life  or  death  ?  if  life,  then  go 
And  on  the  grass  outside  your  armor  throw, 
And  then  returning,  drink  to  my  delight 
Until  the  summer  sun  puts  out  the  night." 

But  loud  they  shouted,  swaying  to  and  fro, 
And  mocked  at  him,  and  cried  aloud  to  know 
If  in  his  hand  Jove's  thunderbolt  he  had, 
Or  Mars'  red  sword  that  makes  the  eagles  glad ; 
But  Phineus,  raging,  cried,  "Take  him  alive, 
That  we  for  many  an  hour  the  wretch  may  drive 
With  thongs  and  clubs  until  he  longs  to  die ! " 

Then  all  set  on  him  with  a  mighty  cry, 
But,  with  a  shout  that  thrilled  high  over  theirs, 
He  drew  the  head  out  by  the  snaky  hairs 
And  turned  on  them  the  baleful  glassy  eyes ; 
Then  sank  to  silence  all  that  storm  of  cries 
And  clashing  arms  ;  the  tossing  points,  that  shone 
In  the  last  sunbeams,  went  out  one  by  one 
As  the  sun  left  them,  for  each  man  there  died, 
E'en  as  the  shepherd  on  the  bare  hillside, 
Smitten  amid  the  grinding  of  the  storm  ; 
When,  while  the  hare  lies  Hat  in  her  wet  form, 
E'en  strong  men  quake  for  fear  in  houses  strong, 
And  nigh  the  ground  the  lightning  runs  along. 

But  upright  on  their  feet  the  dead  men  stood, 


188  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

In  brow  and  cheek  still  flushed  the  angry  blood  ; 
This  smiled,  the  mouth  of  that  was  open  wide, 
This  other  drew  the  great  sword  from  his  side, 
All  were  at  point  to  do  this  thing  or  that. 

As  silent  in  the  hall  the  living  sat 
As  those  dead  men,  till  Perseus  turned  at  last 
And  over  all  a  kingly  look  he  cast, 
And  said,  "  O  friends,  drink  yet  one  cup  to  me, 
And  then  to-morrow  will  I  try  the  sea 
With  this  my  love  ;  and,  sweet  Andromeda, 
Forgive  me  that  I  needs  must  play  this  play  ; 
Forget  it,  sweet !  thou  wilt  not  see  again 
This  land  of  thine,  upland,  or  hill,  or  plain  ; 
There  where  we  go  shall  all  be  new  to  thee 
Except  the  love  that  thou  hast  won  from  me." 
Then  to  her  frightened  face  there  came  a  smile, 
And  in  her  cheeks  within  a  little  while 
Sweet  color  came  again  ;  but  right  few  words 
Upon  that  night  were  said  of  King  or  lords. 

But  soon  again  the  lovers  were  alone 
Of  all  the  sons  of  men  remembering  none, 
Forgetting  every  god  but  him  whose  bow 
About  the  vexed  and  flowery  earth  doth  go. 


SO  on  the  morn,  when  risen  was  the  sun, 
About  the  capstan  did  the  shipmen  run, 
Warping  the  great  ship  to  the  harbor  mouth 
That  yearly  went  for  treasures  to  the  south, 
And  thither  from  the  palace  did  men  bear 
Bales  of  rich  cloth,  and  golden  vessels  rare, 
And  gold  new  coined,  and  silver  bars  of  weight. 
And  women-slaves  with  bodies  slim  and  straight 
Stood  on  the  snow-white  deck,  and  strong  men-slaves, 
Brought  from  some  conquered  land  beyond  the  waves, 
Bore  down  rich  burdens  ;  so  when  all  things  due 
Were  laid  on  shipboard,  and  to  noon  it  grew, 
Thither  came  Perseus  with  his  new-wed  wife, 
And  she,  as  losing  somewhat  of  her  life, 
Was  pensive  now  and  silent,  and  regret 
Must  move  her  that  her  heart  must  soon  forget 
All  folk  and  things  where  first  her  life  began, 


THE  DOOM  OF  KING  ACRISIUS. 

Yea,  e'en  the  mother,  whose  worn  face  and  wan, 
Tearless  and  haughty,  yet  looked  o'er  the  sea, 
As  though  the  life  wherein  no  good  could  be 
She  still  would  bear  in  every  god's  despite  — 
—  Ah,  folk  forget ;  the  damsel's  heart  grew  light 
E'en  while  her  country's  cliffs  she  yet  could  see. 
Should  she  remember,  when  so  lovingly 
That  cheek  touched  hers,  and  he  was  hers  alone  ? 

Love  while  ye  may  ;  if  twain  grow  into  one 
'T  is  for  a  little  while ;  the  time  goes  by, 
No  hatred  'twixt  the  pair  of  friends  doth  lie, 
No  troubles  break  their  hearts  —  and  yet,  and  yet  — 
How  could  it  be  ?  we  strove  not  to  forget ; 
Rather  in  vain  to  that  old  time  we  clung, 
Its  hopes  and  wishes  round  our  hearts  we  hung, 
We  played  old  parts,  we  used  old  names  —  in  vain, 
We  go  our  ways,  and  twain  once  more  are  twain ; 
Let  pass  —  at  latest  when  we  come  to  die 
Thus  shall  the  fashion  of  the  world  go  by. 

But  these,  while  still  at  brightest  love's  flame  burned, 
Were  glad  indeed,  as  towards  Seriphos  turned 
Bright  shone  their  gilded  prow  against  the  sun. 

Meanwhile  the  folk  of  Joppa,  one  by  one, 
Took  Phineus'  people  and  their"  master  dead, 
All  turned  to  stone  as  they  had  seen  the  head, 
And  in  a  lonely  place  they  set  them  down, 
Upon  a  hill  that  overlooked  the  town, 
And  round  about  them  built  a  wall  foursquare, 
And  at  each  corner  raised  a  temple  fair, 
And  therein  altars  made  they  unto  Jove, 
Pallas,  and  Neptune,  and  the  God  of  Love ; 
And  in  Jove's  temple  carved  that  history, 
That  those  who  came  there  after  them  might  see, 
From  first  to  last,  how  all  these  things  were  done, 
And  how  these  men  last  looked  upon  the  sun. 

But  the  two  lovers  going  on  their  way 
Grew  happier  still,  as  bright  day  followed  day  ; 
And,  the  wind  favoring,  in  a  little  while 
They  reached  the  low  shore  of  the  well-loved  isle  ; 
And,  having  beached  the  well-built  keel,  took  land 
Where  Danae's  boat  first  touched  the  yellow  sand. 
Then  cityward  alone  did  Perseus  go 
His  fatal  gift  unto  the  King  to  show ; 


190  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And,  passing  through  the  fair  fields  hastily, 

Reached  the  green  precinct,  where  he  thought  to  see 

His  mother  he  had  left  alive  and  well  ; 

But  from  inside  upon  his  ears  there  fell 

A  noise  of  shrieks  and  clashing  arms  and  shouts ; 

Thereto  he  ran  beset  with  many  doubts, 

Since  Polydectes'  evil  wiles  he  knew, 

And  what  a  fate  he  erst  had  doomed  him  to  ; 

So,  hurrying  through,  he  reached  the  shrine  at  last, 

And  there  beheld  his  mother,  her  arms  cast 

About  Minerva's  image,  and  by  her 

Good  Dictys,  who,  with  shield  and  glittering  spear, 

Abode  the  onslaught  of  an  armed  band, 

At  head  of  whom  did  Polydectes  stand. 

Then  to  her  side  sprang  Perseus  with  a  cry, 
And  at  that  sight  and  sound  she  joyfully 
Said,  ' '  Com'st  thou,  long  desired  ?  naught  fear  I  now, 
This  kingly  traitor  soon  shall  lie  alow. " 
Then  the  King  tottered  backward,  and  awhile 
Stood  staring  at  him  ;  but  an  evil  smile 
Soon  hid  his  fear,  as,  turning,  he  beheld 
The  glittering  weapons  that  his  stout  slaves  held, 
And  he  cried  out,  ' '  Yea,  art  thou  back  again  ? 
And  was  my  story  forged  for  thee  in  vain  ? 
Be  merry  then,  but  give  me  place  or  die  ! 
I  am  not  one  to  meet  thee  fearfully. 
But  thee,  O  brother,  must  I  then  slay  thee,  „ 

And  in  our  house  must  one  more  story  be  ? 
Give  back  !  nor  for  a  woman's  foolishness 
Bring  curses  on  the  name  thou  shouldest  bless. 
—  Set  on  at  once  then  !  take  the  three  of  them !  " 

Then  once  more  clashed  the  spears,  but  on  the  hem 
Of  that  dread  satchel  Perseus  set  his  hand, 
And  put  his  friend  aside,  and  took  his  stand 
Betwixt  his  mother  and  the  island  men  ; 
And  terribly  he  cried,  "  Thus  take  thou  then 
The  gift  thou  bad'st  me  bring  to  thee  !  nor  ask 
Of  any  man  again  another  task, 
Except  to  cast  on  thee  a  little  sand 
That  thou  may'st  reach  in  peace  the  shadowy  land." 
His  mocking  speech  he  ended  with  a  shout, 
And  from  the  bag  the  dreadful  head  drew  out, 
And  shook  it  in  the  King's  bewildered  face ; 
Who  unto  him  yet  strove  to  make  one  pace 
With  feebly  brandished  spear  and  drooping  shield, 
Then  unto  stony  death  his  heart  did  yield, 


THE  DOOM  OF  KING  ACRISIUS.  191 

And  without  any  cry  upright  he  died, 

With  fallen  arms  and  fixed  eyes  staring  wide. 

But  of  his  men  the  bravest  turned  and  fled, 

And  on  the  ground  some  trembled,  wellnigh  dead 

For  very  fear,  till  Perseus  cried,  "  Arise, 

Lay  down  your  arms  and  go  !     Henceforth  be  wise  ; 

Nor  at  kings'  biddings  'gainst  the  just  gods  strive." 

But  as  they  slunk  away,  too  glad  to  live 

To  need  more  words,  and  shivering  with  their  dread, 

Once  more  did  Perseus  hide  the  fearful  head, 

And  toward  his  mother  turned  ;  who,  with  pale  face, 

Stood  trembling  there,  remembering  that  embrace 

Within  the  brazen  house  ;  but  now  he  threw 

His  arms  about  her  as  he  used  to  do 

When  her  own  arms  his  little  body  bore  ; 

And  smiling,  even  as  he  smiled  of  yore, 

He  said,  "  O  mother,  fear  me  not  at  all, 

But  yet  bethink  thee  of  the  brazen  wall 

And  golden  Jove,  nor  doubt  from  him  I  came ; 

And  no  more  now  shall  I  be  called  thy  shame, 

But  thy  defence  and  glory  everywhere. 

"  But  now  to  lovely  Argos  let  us  fare, 
Too  small  a  land  this  is  become  for  thee, 
And  I  may  hope  a  greater  sovereignty, 
Who,  by  God's  help,  have  done  such  mighty  things, 
Which  I  will  tell  thee  of,  while  the  wind  sings 
Amongst  the  shrouds  of  my  rich-laden  keel, 
While  by  thy  feet  a  god-given  gift  shall  kneel, 
My  bride  new  won  ;  in  such  like  guise  will  we 
Come  back  to  him  who  gave  us  to  the  sea, 
And  make  our  peace  and  all  ill  blood  forget, 
That  through  long  happy  years  thou  may'st  live  yet." 

Then  did  he  take  good  Dictys  by  the  hand, 
And  said,  "  O  righteous  man,  we  leave  this  land, 
Nor  leave  thee  giftless  for  the  welcoming 
Thou  gav'st  us  erst,  nor  for  this  other  thing 
That  thou  hast  wrought  for  us  this  happy  tide  ; 
Therefore  do  thou  as  King  herein  abide, 
And  win  Jove's  love  by  helping,  in  such  wise 
As  thou  didst  us,  folk  sunk  in  miseries." 

So  gave  he  kingdoms,  as  he  took  away, 
For  strong  the  god  was  in  him  on  that  day, 
And  the  gods  smiled  to  hear  him  ;  yea,  and  she 
Who  armed  him  erst,  then  dealt  so  lovingly, 
She  caused  the  people's  hearts  towards  him  to  yearn, 


192  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Who,  thronging  round,  began  somehow  to  leam 

The  story  of  his  deeds,  and  cried  aloud, 

"  Be  thou  our  King  !  "     Then -showed  he  to  the  crowd 

Dictys  his  friend,  and  said,  "  I  to  my  kin 

Must  go,  mine  heritage  and  goods  to  win, 

And,  a  king,  deal  with  kings  ;  but  yet  see  here 

This  royal  man,  my  helpful  friend  and  dear  ; 

Loved  of  the  gods,  surely  he  is  of  worth 

For  greater  things. "     So  saying  he  went  forth 

And  mid  their  reverence,  leading  by  the  hand 

His  happy  mother,  turned  unto  the  strand ; 

And  still  the  wondering  folk  with  them  must  go, 

And  now  such  honor  unto  him  would  show, 

That  rather  they  would  make  him  god  than  king ; 

But  while  fresh  carols  round  him  these  did  sing 

They  came  unto  the  low,  sea-beaten  sand  ; 

And  Danae  took  the  Syrian  by  the  hand 

And  kissed  her,  full  of  joy  that  such  an  one 

Should  bear  brave  children  to  her  godlike  son  : 

Then  Perseus  gave  commands,  and  on  the  shore 

Great  gifts  they  laid  from  out  his  plenteous  store, 

To  glad  King  Dictys'  eyes  withal,  and  then 

Bade  farewell  to  him  and  his  island  men  ; 

And  all  took  ship,  and,  hoisting  sail  straightway, 

Departed  o'er  the  restless  plain  and  gray. 

Now  fair  the  wind  was  for  a  day  and  night, 
But  on  the  second  day  as  it  grew  light, 
And  they  were  thinking  that  they  soon  should  be 
At  Argos,  rose  a  tempest  on  the  sea, 
And  drave  them  from  their  course  unto  a  land 
Far  north  thereof.     So  on  the  yellow  sand 
They  hauled  their  ship,  and  thereto  presently 
The  good  folk  of  the  country  drew  anigh, 
To  make  their  market ;  and,  being  asked,  they  said 
That  this  was  Thessaly,  that  strait  paths  led 
Through  rugged  mountains  to  a  fertile  plain 
Peneus  watered,  rich  with  many  a  fane  : 
That  following  down  the  stream  they  soon  should  come 
Unto  a  mighty  people's  glorious  home, 
A  god-loved  ancient  city,  called  of  men 
Larissa,  and  the  time  was  fitting  then 
To  go  thereto,  and  there  should  they  have  rest, 
For  now  each  comer  was  an  honored  guest, 
Because  Teutamias,  the  Thessalian  king, 
His  father  dead  with  games  was  honoring. 


THE  DOOM  OF  KING  ACRISIUS.          193 

Then  to  that  city  Perseus  fain  would  go, 
His  might  unto  the  gathered  men  to  show  ; 
Desiring,  too,  to  gather  tidings  there 
Of  how  the  old  Acrisius  yet  might  fare, 
And  if  unto  his  scarce-seen  Argive  home 
He  in  good  peace  might  venture  now  to  come. 
So  of  the  country  folk  he  took  fair  steeds 
And  gave  them  gold,  and  goods  for  all  their  needs, 
And  with  a  trusty  band  with  this  intent 
Through  the  rough  passes  of  the  hills  he  went, 
Bearing  his  mother  and  the  Syrian  may  : 
As  of  a  king's  men  deemed  of  his  array, 
When  to  the  fertile  peopled  fields  he  came  ; 
But  yet  he  bade  that  none  should  tell  his  name. 
So  coming  to  Larissa,  all  men  thought, 
That  he  who  with  him  such  great  marvels  brought 
Was  some  great  king,  though  scanty  was  his  band ; 
So  honor  did  he  get  on  every  hand. 
But  when  the  games  began,  and  none  could  win 
A  prize  in  any,  if  he  played  therein, 
A  greater  name  they  gave  him,  saying,  ' '  What  worth 
In  this  poor  age  is  left  upon  the  earth 
To  do  such  deeds  ?     Surely  no  man  this  is, 
But  some  god  weary  of  the  heavenly  bliss." 

At  last,  when  all  the  other  games  were  done, 
Men  fell  to  play  at  casting  of  the  stone  ; 
And  strong  men  cast  it,  mighty  of  their  hands, 
Bearers  of  great  names  in  the  Grecian  lands  : 
But  Perseus  stood  and  watched  the  play  alone, 
Nor  did  he  move  when  every  man  had  thrown. 
Then  cried  Teutamias,  ' '  Nameless  one  !  see  now 
How  mightily  these  strong-armed  heroes  throw  : 
Canst  thou  prevail  in  this  as  in  the  rest  ?  " 

"  O  King  ! "  said  Perseus,  "  now  I  think  it  best 
To  try  the  Fates  no  more  ;  I  must  be  gone  : 
Therefore  to-day  thou  seest  me  thus  alone, 
For  in  the  house  my  white-armed  damsels  stay 
To  order  matters  for  our  homeward  way." 

"  Nay,  stranger,"  said  the  King,  "  but  rather  take 
This  golden  garland  for  Teutamias'  sake, 
And  try  one  cast :  look,  here  I  have  with  me 
A  well-loved  guest,  who  is  most  fain  to  see 
Thy  godlike  strength,  yea,  we  will  draw  anigh 
To  watch  the  heavy  stone  like  Jove's  bolt  fly 
Forth  from  thine  hand."     Then  Perseus  smiled  and  said, 
"  Nay  then,  be  wary,  and  guard  well  thine  head ! 


194  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

For  who  of  mortals  knoweth  where  and  when 
The  bolts  of  Jove  shall  smite  down  foolish  men  ?  " 

So  said  he,  and  withal  the  King  drew  nigh, 
And  with  him  an  old  man,  who  anxiously 
Peered  round  him  as  if  looking  for  a  foe  ; 
Then  Perseus  made  him  ready  for  the  throw, 
But  even  as  he  stooped  the  stone  to  raise, 
The  old  man  said,  "  That  I  the  more  may  praise 
This  hero's  cast,  come  to  the  other  end 
And  we  shall  see  the  hill  of  granite  send 
The  earth  and  stones  up  as  its  course  is  spent" 
So  then  beyond  the  farthest  cast  they  went 
By  some  three  yards,  and  stood  aside  ;  but  now 
Since  it  was  evening  and  the  sun  was  low 
Its  beams  were  in  their  eyes,  nor  could  they  see 
If  Perseus  moved  or  not,  then  restlessly 
Looking  this  way  or  that,  the  ancient  man, 
Gathering  his  garments  up,  in  haste  began 
To  cross  the  place,  but  when  a  warning  shout 
Rang  in  his  ears,  then  wavering  and  in  doubt 
He  stopped,  and  scarcely  had  he  time  to  hear 
A  second  cry  of  horror  and  of  fear, 
Ere  crushed,  and  beaten  down  upon  the  ground, 
The  end  of  all  his  weary  life  he  found. 

Then  women  shrieked,  and  strong  men  shouted  out, 
And  Perseus  ran  to  those  that  drew  about 
The  slain  old  man,  and  asked  them  of  his  name  ; 
But  the  King,  eying  him  as  nigh  he  came, 
Said,  "  This  we  know,  and  thy  hid  name  we  know, 
For  certainly  thou  art  his  fated  foe, 
His  very  daughter's  strange-begotten  son, 
The  child  the  sea  cast  up,  the  dreaded  one. 
This  was  Acrisius,  who  for  fear  of  thee 
Shut  up  thy  mother  by  the  sounding  sea  ; 
This  was  the  man,  who,  for  the  very  dread 
Of  meeting  thee,  from  lovely  Argos  fled 
To  be  my  guest     Nay,  let  thy  sharp  sword  bide 
Within  its  sheath,  the  world  is  fair  and  wide, 
Nor  have  we  aught  to  do  to  thee  for  this  ; 
Go  then  in  peace,  and  live  in  woe  or  bliss 
E'en  as  thou  may'st,  but  stay  with  us  no  more, 
Because  we  fear  the  gods  may  plague  us  sore 
For  this  thy  deed,  though  they  would  have  it  so." 

Then  soberly  thenceforth  did  Perseus  go 


THE  DOOM  OF  KING  ACRISIUS.          195 

Unto  his  folk,  and  straightly  told  them  all 
That  on  that  luckless  day  had  chanced  to  fall ; 
Wondering  thereat,  there  made  they  no  delay 
But  down  unto  the  sea  they  took  their  way  ; 
And  much  did  Danae  ponder  as  they  went 
How  the  high  gods  had  wrought  out  their  intent, 
And  thinking  on  these  things  she  needs  must  sigh 
For  pity  of  her  sweet  life  passing  by. 

But  when  they  reached  the  border  of  the  sea, 
Then  Perseus  said,  "  Though  all  unwittingly 
I  slew  this  man,  and  though  perchance  of  right 
His  throne  is  mine,  yet  never  will  I  fight 
Against  the  just  gods,  and  I  fear  the  stain 
Of  kindred  blood,  if  slaying  him  I  gain 
His  kingdom  and  the  city  of  my  birth  : 
Now,  therefore,  since  the  gods  have  made  the  earth 
Most  fair  in  many  places,  let  us  go 
Where'er  the  god-sent  fated  wind  shall  blow 
The  ship,  that  carries  one  the  high  gods  love. 
But  first  the  armed  lovely  Maid  of  Jove 
Here  let  us  worship,  on  this  yellow  beach, 
That  her,  my  helper  erst,  we  may  beseech 
To  grant  us  much,  and  first  of  all  things,  this, 
A  land  where  we  may  dwell  awhile  in  bliss." 

They  heard  him  gladly,  for  the  most  of  those 
WTere  young,  nor  yet  by  mishaps  and  by  foes 
Had  learned  to  think  the  world  a  dreary  thing ; 
So  round  about  the  altar  did  they  sing 
And  feasted  well,  and  when  the  day  came  round 
Once  more,  they  went  a-shipboard  to  the  sound 
Of  trumpets  and  heart-moving  melody, 
And  gave  their  rich  keel  to  the  restless  sea. 

Then  for  four  days  before  the  wind  they  drove, 
Until  at  last  in  sight  a  new  land  hove 
Their  pilot  called  the  coast  of  Argolis, 
That  rich  in  cattle  and  in  horses  is. 

But  landing  there  had  Perseus'  godlike  fame 
Gone  on  before  him,  and  the  people  came 
And  cried  upon  him  for  their  king  and  lord, 
The  people's  saving  shield  and  conquering  sword ; 
So  in  that  land  he  failed  not  to  abide, 
And  there  with  many  rites  he  purified 
His  fated  hands  of  that  unlooked-for  guilt ; 
And  there  a  town  within  a  while  he  built 
Men  call  Mycense.     Peaceful  grew  the  land 
The  while  the  ivory  rod  was  in  his  hand, 


196  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

For  robbers  fled,  and  good  men  still  waxed  strong, 
And  in  no  house  was  any  sound  of  wrong, 
Until  the  Golden  Age  seemed  there  to  be, 
So  steeped  the  land  was  in  felicity. 

Time  passed,  and  there  his  wife  and  mother  died, 
And  he,  no  god,  must  lie  down  by  their  side, 
While  Alceus,  his  first  son,  reigned  after  him, 
A  conquering  king,  and  fair,  and  strong  of  limb. 

But  long  ere  this  he  did  not  fail  to  lay 
The  sacred  things  that  brought  him  on  his  way 
Within  Minerva's  temple  ;  there  with  awe 
'Twixt  silver  bars,  all  folk  these  marvels  saw, 
But  not  for  long,  for  on  the  twentieth  day 
From  the  fair  temple  were  they  snatched  away 
Though  by  the  armed  priests  guarded  faithfully. 
But  still  the  empty  wallet  there  did  lie 
Wherein  had  Perseus  borne  the  head  with  him, 
Which  still,  when  his  great  deeds  were  waxing  dim, 
Hung  in  the  Maiden's  temple  near  the  shrine, 
And  folk  would  pour  before  it  oil  and  wine. 

And  know  besides,  that  from  that  very  year 
Those  who  are  wise  say  that  the  Maid  doth  bear 
Amidst  her  shield  that  awful  snaky  head 
Whereby  so  many  heedless  ones  are  dead. 


T)  EFORE  the  last  words  of  his  tale  were  done 
\i  The  purple  hills  had  hidden  half  the  sun, 
But  when  the  story's  death  a  silence  made 
Within  the  hall,  in  freshness  and  in  shade 
The  trembling  blossoms  of  the  garden  lay. 

Few  words  at  first  the  elder  men  could  say, 
For  thinking  how  all  stories  end  with  this, 
Whatever  was  the  midway  gain  and  bliss  : 
"  He  died,  and  in  his  place  was  set  his  son  ; 
He  died,  and  in  a  few  days  every  one 
Went  on  their  way  as  though  he  had  not  been. " 

Yet  with  the  pictures  that  their  eyes  had  seen, 
As  still  from  point  to  point  that  history  past, 
And  round  their  thoughts  its  painted  veil  was  cast, 
Their  hearts  were  softened,  —  far  away  they  saw 


APRIL.  197 

That  other  world,  that  'neath  another  law 

Had  lived  and  died  ;  when  man  might  hope  to  see 

Some  earthly  image  of  Divinity, 

And  yet  not  die,  but,  strengthened  by  the  sight, 

Cast  fear  away,  and  go  from  might  to  might, 

Until  to  godlike  life,  though  short,  he  came, 

Amiclst  all  losses  winning  hope  of  fame, 

Nor  losing  joy  the  while  his  life  should  'dure, 

For  that  at  least  his  valiant  strife  made  sure, 

That  still  in  place  of  dreamy,  youthful  hope, 

With  slow  decay  and  certain  death  could  cope. 

So  mused  the  Wanderers,  and  awhile  might  deem 
That  world  might  not  be  quite  an  empty  dream, 
But  dim  foreshadowings  of  what  yet  might  come 
When  they  perforce  must  leave  that  new-gained  home ; 
Foreshadowings  mingled  with  the  images 
Of  man's  misdeeds  in  greater  days  than  these. 

With  no  harsh  words  their  musing  was  undone, 
The  garden  birds  sang  down  the  setting  sun, 
A  rainy  wind  from  'twixt  the  trees  arose, 
And  sang  a  mournful  counterpoint  to  those  ; 
And,  ere  the  rain  amidst  the  dark  could  fall, 
The  minstrel's  song  was  ringing  through  the  hall. 


WHEN  April-tide  was  melting  into  May, 
Within  a  hall  that  midst  the  gardens  lay 
These  elders  met,  and  having  feasted  well, 
The  time  came  round  the  wonted  tale  to  tell. 
Then  spake  a  Wanderer  :   "  Sirs,  it  happed  to  me, 
Long  years  agone,  to  cross  the  narrow  sea 
That  'twixt  us  Drontheimers  and  England  lies  ; 
Young  was  I  then,  and  little  thought  these  eyes 
Should  see  so  many  lands  ere  all  was  done. 
"  But  this  land  was  a  fair  and  fertile  one, 
As  at  that  time,  for  April-tide  it  was, 
Even  as  now  ;  well,  sirs,  it  came  to  pass 
That  to  this  town  or  that  we  took  our  way, 
Or  in  some  abbey's  guesten-chamber  lay, 
And  many  tales  we  heard,  some  false,  some  true, 
Of  the  ill  deeds  our  fathers  used  to  do 
Within  that  land  ;  and  still  the  tale  would  end, 


198  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

'  Yet  did  the  Saint  his  Holy  House  defend ' ; 
Or,  '  Sirs,  their  fury  all  was  naught  and  vain, 
And  by  our  Earl  the  pirate-king  was  slain.' 
God  wot,  I  laughed  full  often  in  my  sleeve, 
And  could  have  told  them  stories,  by  their  leave, 
With  other  endings  :  but  I  held  my  tongue. 
Let  each  king's  deeds  in  his  own  land  be  sung, 
And  then  will  lies  stretch  far.     Besides,  these  men 
Were  puffed  up  with  their  luck  and  glory  then, 
For  at  that  tide,  within  the  land  of  France, 
Unto  their  piping  must  all  people  dance. 
—  But  let  that  pass,  for  Captain  Rolf  has  told 
How,  on  the  way,  their  king  he  did  behold. 

"  For  other  tales  they  told,  and  one  of  these 
Not  all  the  washing  of  the  troublous  seas, 
Not  all  the  changeful  days  whereof  ye  know, 
Have  swept  from  out  my  memory ;  even  so 
Small  things  far  off  will  be  remembered  clear 
When  matters  both  more  weighty  and  more  near 
Are  waxing  dim  to  us.     I,  who  have  seen 
So  many  lands,  and  midst  such  marvels  been, 
Clearer  than  these  abodes  of  outland  men 
Can  see  above  the  green  and  unburnt  fen 
The  little  houses  of  an  English  town, 
Cross-timbered,thatched  with  fen-reeds  coarse  and  brown, 
And,  high  o'er  these,  three  gables,  great  and  fair, 
That  slender  rods  of  columns  do  upbear 
Over  the  minster  doors,  and  imagery 
Of  kings,  and  flowers  no  summer  field  doth  see, 
Wrought  on  those  gables.  —  Yea,  I  heard  withal, 
In  the  fresh  morning  air,  the  trowels  fall 
Upon  the  stone,  a  thin  noise  far  away ; 
For  high  up  wrought  the  masons  on  that  day, 
Since  to  the  monks  that  house  seemed  scarcely  well 
Till  they  had  set  a  spire  or  pinnacle 
Each  side  the  great  porch.     In  that  burgh  I  heard 
This  tale,  and  late  have  set  down  every  word 
That  I  remembered  when  the  thoughts  would  come, 
Of  what  we  did  in  our  deserted  home, 
And  of  the  days,  long  past,  when  we  were  young, 
Nor  knew  the  cloudy  woes  that  o'er  us  hung. 
And  howsoever  I  am  now  grown  old, 
Yet  is  it  still  the  tale  I  then  heard  told 
Within  the  guest-house  of  that  minster-close, 
Whose  walls,  like  cliffs  new  made,  before  us  rose. " 


THE  PROUD  KING. 

ARGUMENT. 


IN  a  far  country  that  I  cannot  name, 
And  on  a  year  long  ages  past  away, 
A  King  there  dwelt,  in  rest  and  ease  and  fame, 
And  richer  than  the  Emperor  is  to-day  : 
The  very  thought  of  what  this  man  might  say 
From  dusk  to  dawn  kept  many  a  lord  awake, 
For  fear  of  him  did  many  a  great  man  quake. 

Young  was  he  when  he  first  sat  on  the  throne, 
And  he  was  wedded  to  a  noble  wife, 
But  at  the  da'is  must  he  sit  alone, 
Nor  durst  a  man  speak  to  him  for  his  life, 
Except  with  leave  :  naught  knew  he  change  or  strife, 
But  that  the  years  passed  silently  away, 
And  in  his  black  beard  gathered  specks  of  gray. 

Now  so  it  chanced,  upon  a  May  morning, 
Wakeful  he  lay  when  yet  low  was  the  sun, 
Looking  distraught  at  many  a  royal  thing, 
And  counting  up  his  titles  one  by  one, 
And  thinking  much  of  things  that  he  had  done  ; 
For  full  of  life  he  felt,  and  hale  and  strong, 
And  knew  that  none  durst  say  when  he  did  wrong. 

For  no  man  now  could  give  him  dread  or  doubt, 
The  land  was  'neath  his  sceptre  far  and  wide, 
And  at  his  beck  would  well-armed  myriads  shout 
Then  swelled  his  vain,  unthinking  heart  with  pride, 
Until  at  last  he  raised  him  up  and  cried, 
"  What  need  have  I  for  temple  or  for  priest  ? 
Am  I  not  God,  whiles  that  I  live  at  least  ?  " 


00  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE.* 

And  yet  withal  that  dead  his  fathers  were, 
He  needs  must  think  that  quick  the  years  pass  by ; 
But  he,  who  seldom  yet  had  seen  Death  near 
Or  heard  his  name,  said,  "  Still  I  may  not  die, 
Though  underneath  the  earth  my  fathers  lie  ; 
My  sire  indeed  was  called  a  mighty  king, 
Yet,  in  regard  of  mine,  a  little  thing 

"  His  kingdom  was  ;  moreover  his  grandsire 
To  him  was  but  a  prince  of  narrow  lands, 
Whose  father,  though  to  things  he  did  aspire 
Beyond  most  men,  a  great  knight  of  his  hands, 
Yet  ruled  some  little  town  where  now  there  stands 
The  kennel  of  my  dogs  ;  then  may  not  I 
Rise  higher  yet,  nor  like  poor  wretches  die  ? 

"  Since  up  the  ladder  ever  we  have  gone 
Step  after  step  nor  fallen  back  again  ; 
And  there  are  tales  of  people  who  have  won 
A  life  enduring,  without  care  or  pain, 
Or  any  man  to  make  their  wishes  vain  ; 
Perchance  this  prize  unwitting  now  I  hold ; 
For  times  change  fast,  the  world  is  waxen  old. " 

So  mid  these  thoughts  once  more  he  fell  asleep, 
And  when  he  woke  again,  high  was  the  sun, 
Then  quickly  from  his  gold  bed  did  he  leap, 
And  of  his  former  thoughts  remembered  none, 
But  said,  "  To-day  through  green  woods  will  we  run, 
Nor  shall  to-day  be  worse  than  yesterday, 
But  better  it  may  be,  for  game  and  play." 

So  for  the  hunt  was  he  apparelled, 
And  forth  he  rode  with  heart  right  well  at  ease  ; 
And  many  a  strong,  deep-chested  hound  they  led, 
Over  the  dewy  grass  betwixt  the  trees, 
And  fair  white  horses  fit  for  the  white  knees 
Of  Her  the  ancients  fabled  rides  anights 
Betwixt  the  setting  and  the  rising  lights. 

Now  following  up  a  mighty  hart  and  swift 
The  King  rode  long  upon  that  morning-tide, 
And  since  his  horse  was  worth  a  kingdom's  gift, 
It  chanced  him  all  his  servants  to  outride, 
Until  unto  a  shaded  river-side 
He  came  alone  at  hottest  of  the  sun, 
When  all  the  freshness  of  the  day  was  done. 


THE  PROUD  KING. 

Dismounting  there,  and  seeing  so  far  adown 
The  red-finned  fishes  o'er  the  gravel  play, 
It  seemed  that  moment  worth  his  royal  crown 
To  hide  there  from  the  burning  of  the  day, 
Wherefore  he  did  off  all  his  rich  array, 
And  tied  his  horse  unto  a  neighboring  tree, 
And  in  the  water  sported  leisurely. 

But  when  he  was  fulfilled  of  this  delight 
He  gat  him  to  the  bank  well  satisfied, 
And  thought  to  do  on  him  his  raiment  bright 
And  homeward  to  his  royal  house  to  ride  ; 
But  'mazed  and  angry,  looking  far  and  wide, 
Naught  saw  he  of  his  horse  and  rich  attire, 
And  'gainst  the  thief  'gan  threaten  vengeance  dire. 

But  little  help  his  fury  was  to  him, 
So  lustily  he  'gan  to  shout  and  cry  ; 
None  answered  ;  still  the  lazy  chub  did  swim 
By  inches  'gainst  the  stream  ;  away  did  fly 
The  small  pied  bird,  but  nathless  stayed  anigh, 
And  o'er  the  stream  still  plied  his  fluttering  trade, 
Of  such  a  helpless  man  not  much  afraid. 

Weary  of  crying  in  that  lonely  place 
He  ceased  at  last,  and  thinking  what  to  do, 
E'en  as  he  was,  up  stream  he  set  his  face, 
Since  not  far  off  a  certain  house  he  knew 
Where  dwelt  his  ranger,  a  lord  leal  and  true, 
Who  many  a  bounty  at  his  hands  had  had, 
And  now  to  do  him  ease  would  be  right  glad. 

Thither  he  hastened  on,  and  as  he  went 
The  hot  sun  sorely  burned  his  naked  skin, 
The  whiles  he  thought,  "  When  he  to  me  has  lent 
Fine  raiment,  and  at  ease  I  sit  within 
His  coolest  chamber  clad  in  linen  thin, 
And  drinking  wine,  the  best  that  he  has  got, 
I  shall  forget  this  troublous  day  and  hot." 

Now  note,  that  while  he  thus  was  on  his  way, 
And  still  his  people  for  their  master  sought, 
There  met  them  one  who  in  the  King's  array 
Bestrode  his  very  horse,  and  as  they  thought 
Was  none  but  he  in  good  time  to  them  brought, 
Therefore  they  hailed  him  king,  and  so  all  rode 
From  out  the  forest  to  his  fair  abode. 


D2  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And  there  in  royal  guise  he  sat  at  meat, 
Served,  as  his  wont  was,  'neath  the  canopy, 
And  there  the  hounds  fawned  round  about  his  feet, 
And  there  that  city's  elders  did  he  see, 
And  with  his  lords  took  counsel  what  should  be ; 
And  there  at  supper  when  the  day  waxed  dim 
The  Queen  within  his  chamber  greeted  him. 


LEAVE  we  him  there  ;  for  to  the  ranger's  gate 
The  other  came,  and  on  the  horn  he  blew, 
Till  peered  the  wary  porter  through  the  grate 
To  see  if  he,  perchance,  the  blower  knew, 
Before  he  should  the  wicket -gate  undo  ; 
But  when  he  saw  him  standing  there,  he  cried, 
"  What  dost  thou, friend,  to  show  us  all  thine  hide  ? 

"  We  list  not  buy  to-day  or  flesh  or  fell ; 
Go  home  and  get  thyself  a  shirt  at  least, 
If  thou  wouldst  aught,  for  saith  our  vicar  well, 
That  God  hath  given  clothes  e'en  to  the  beast." 
Therewith  he  turned  to  go,  but,  as  he  ceased, 
The  King  cried  out,  "  Open,  O  foolish  man  ! 
I  am  thy  lord  and  king,  Jovinian  ; 

"Go  now,  and  tell  thy  master  I  am  here 
Desiring  food  and  clothes,  and  in  this  plight, 
And  then  hereafter  need'st  thou  have  no  fear, 
Because  thou  didst  not  know  me  at  first  sight." 
"  Yea,  yea,  I  am  but  dreaming  in  the  night," 
The  carle  said,  "  and  I  bid  thee,  friend,  to  dream, 
Come  through  !  here  is  no  gate,  it  doth  but  seem. " 

With  that  his  visage  vanished  from  the  grate  ; 
But  when  the  King  now  found  himself  alone, 
He  hurled  himself  against  the  mighty  gate, 
And  beat  upon  it  madly  with  a  stone, 
Half  wondering,  midst  his  rage,  how  any  one 
Could  live,  if  longed-for  things  he  chanced  to  lack  ; 
But  midst  all  this,  at  last  the  gate  flew  back, 

And  there  the  porter  stood,  brown-bill  in  hand, 
And  said,  "  Ah,  fool,  thou  makest  this  ado, 
Wishing  before  my  lord's  high  seat  to  stand ; 
Thou  shalt  be  gladder  soon  hereby  to  go, 


THE  PROUD  KING.  203 

Or  surely  naught  of  handy  blows  I  know. 
Come,  willy  nilly,  thou  shalt  tell  this  tale 
Unto  my  lord,  if  aught  it  may  avail." 

With  that  his  staff  he  handled,  as  if  he 
Would  smite  the  King,  and  said,  "  Get  on  before! 
St  Mary  !  now  thou  goest  full  leisurely, 
Who,  erewhile,  fain  wouldst  batter  down  the  door. 
See  now,  if  ere  this  matter  is  passed  o'er, 
I  come  to  harm,  yet  thou  shalt  not  escape, 
Thy  back  is  broad  enow  to  pay  thy  jape." 

Half  blind  with  rage  the  King  before  him  passed, 
But  naught  of  all  he  doomed  him  to  durst  say, 
Lest  he  from  rest  nigh  won  should  yet  be  cast, 
So  with  a  swelling  heart  he  took  his  way, 
Thinking  right  soon  his  shame  to  cast  away, 
And  the  carle  followed  still,  ill  satisfied 
With  such  a  wretched  losel  to  abide. 

Fair  was  the  ranger's  house  and  new  and  white, 
And  by  the  King  built  scarce  a  year  agone, 
And  carved  about  for  this  same  lord's  delight 
With  woodland  stories  deftly  wrought  in  stone  ; 
There  oft  the  King  was  wont  to  come  alone, 
For  much  he  loved  this  lord,  who  erst  had  been 
A  landless  squire,  a  servant  of  the  Queen. 

Now  long  a  lord  and  clad  in  rich  attire, 
In  his  fair  hall  he  sat  before  the  wine, 
Watching  the  evening  sun's  yet  burning  fire 
Through  the  close  branches  of  his  pleasance  shine, 
In  that  mood  when  man  thinks  himself  divine, 
Remembering  not  whereto  we  all  must  come, 
Not  thinking  aught  but  of  his  happy  home. 

From  just  outside  loud  mocking  merriment 
He  heard  midst  this  ;  and  therewithal  a  squire 
Came  hurrying  up,  his  laughter  scarcely  spent, 
Who  said,  "  My  lord,  a  man  in  such  attire 
As  Adam's,  ere  he  took  the  Devil's  hire, 
Who  saith  that  thou  wilt  know  him  for  the  King, 
Up  from  the  gate  John  Porter  needs  must  bring. 

"  He  to  the  King  is  nothing  like  in  aught 
But  that  his  beard  he  weareth  in  such  guise 


204  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

As  doth  my  lord  :  wilt  thou  that  he  be  brought  ? 
Perchance  some  treason  'neath  his  madness  lies. " 
"  Yea,"  saith  the  ranger,  "  that  may  well  be  wise, 
But  haste,  for  this  eve  am  I  well  at  ease, 
Nor  would  be  wearied  with  such  folk  as  these." 

Then  went  the  squire,  and,  coming  back  again, 
The  porter  and  the  naked  King  brought  in, 
Who  thinking  now  that  this  should  end  his  pain, 
Forgat  his  fury  and  the  porter's  sin, 
And  said,  "  Thou  wonderest  how  I  came  to  win 
This  raiment,  that  kings  long  have  ceased  to  wear, 
Since  Noah's  flood  has  altered  all  the  air? 

"  Well,  thou  shalt  know,  but  first  I  pray  thee,  Hugh, 
Reach  me  that  cloak  that  lieth  on  the  board, 
For  certes,  though  thy  folk  are  leal  and  true, 
It  seemeth  that  they  deem  a  mighty  lord 
Is  made  by  crown,  and  silken  robe,  and  sword ; 
Lo,  such  are  borel  folk  ;  but  thou  and  I 
'    Fail  not  to  know  the  signs  of  majesty. 

"Thou  risest  not !  thou  lookest  strange  on  me ! 
Ah,  what  is  this  ?     Who  reigneth  in  my  stead  ? 
How  long  hast  thou  been  plotting  secretly  ? 
Then  slay  me  now,  for  if  I  be  not  dead 
Armies  will  rise  up  when  I  nod  my  head. 
Slay  me  !  —  or  cast  thy  treachery  away, 
And  have  anew  my  favor  from  this  day." 

"  Why  should  I  tell  thee  that  thou  ne'er  wast  king?" 
The  ranger  said,  "  thou  knowest  not  what  I  say  ; 
Poor  man,  I  pray  God  help  thee  in  this  thing, 
And,  ere  thou  diest,  send  thee  some  good  day ; 
Nor  hence  unholpen  shalt  thou  go  away. 
Good  fellows,  this  poor  creature  is  but  mad, 
Take  him,  and  in  a  coat  let  him  be  clad  ; 

"  And  give  him  meat  and  drink,  and  on  this  night 
Beneath  some  roof  of  ours  let  him  abide, 
For  some  day  God  may  set  his  folly  right." 
Then  spread  the  King  his  arms  abroad  and  cried, 
"  Woe  to  thy  food,  thy  house,  and  thee  betide, 
Thou  loathsome  traitor !     Get  ye  from  the  hall, 
Lest  smitten  by  God's  hand  this  roof  should  fall ; 


THE  PROUD  KING.  205 

"  Yea,  if  the  world  be  but  an  idle  dream, 
And  God  deals  naught  with  it,  yet  shall  ye  see 
Red  flame  from  out  these  carven  windows  stream. 
I,  I,  will  burn  this  vile  place  utterly, 
And  strewn  with  salt  the  poisonous  earth  shall  be, 
That  such  a  wretch  of  such  a  man  has  made, 
That  so  such  Judases  may  grow  afraid. " 

Thus  raving,  those  who  held  him  he  shook  off 
And  rushed  from  out  the  hall,  nigh  mad  indeed, 
And  gained  the  gate,  not  heeding  blow  or  scoff, 
Nor  longer  of  his  nakedness  took  heed, 
But  ran,  he  knew  not  where,  at  headlong  speed. 
Till,  when  at  last  his  strength  was  fully  spent, 
Worn  out,  he  fell  beneath  a  woody  bent 

But  for  the  ranger,  left  alone  in  peace, 
He  bade  his  folk  bring  in  the  minstrelsy  ; 
And  thinking  of  his  life,  and  fair  increase 
Of  all  his  goods,  a  happy  man  was  he, 
And  towards  his  master  felt  right  lovingly, 
And  said,  "This  luckless  madman  will  avail 
When  next  I  see  the  King  for  one  more  tale." 


MEANWHILE  the  real  King  by  the  roadside  lay, 
Panting,  confused,  scarce  knowing  if  he  dreamed, 
Until  at  last,  when  vanished  was  the  day, 
Through  the  dark  night  far  off  a  bright  light  gleamed ; 
Which  growing  quickly,  down  the  road  there  streamed 
The  glare  of  torches,  held  by  men  who  ran 
Before  the  litter  of  a  mighty  man. 

These  mixed  with  soldiers  soon  the  road  did  fill, 
And  on  their  harness  could  the  King  behold 
The  badge  of  one  erst  wont  to  do  his  will, 
A  counsellor,  a  gatherer-up  of  gold, 
Who  underneath  his  rule  had  now  grown  old  : 
Then  wrath  and  bitterness  so  filled  his  heart, 
That  from  his  wretched  lair  he  needs  must  start. 

And  o'er  the  clatter  shrilly  did  he  cry, 
"  Well  met,  Duke  Peter  !  ever  art  thou  wise  ; 


206  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Surely  thou  wilt  not  let  a  day  go  by 

Ere  thou  art  good  friends  with  mine  enemies  ; 

O  fit  to  rule  within  a  land  of  lies, 

Go  on  thy  journey,  make  thyself  more  meet 

To  sit  in  hell  beneath  the  devil's  feet ! " 

But  as  he  ceased  a  soldier  drew  anear, 
And  smote  him  flatling  with  his  sheathed  sword, 
And  said,  "  Speak  louder,  that  my  lord  may  hear, 
And  give  thee  wages  for  thy  ribald  word  ! 
Come  forth,  for  I  must  show  thee  to  my  lord, 
For  he  may  think  thee  more  than  mad  indeed, 
Who  of  men's  ways  hast  taken  wondrous  heed." 

Now  was  the  litter  stayed  midmost  the  road, 
And  round  about,  the  torches  in  a  ring 
Were  gathered,  and  their  flickering  light  now  glowed 
In  gold  and  gems  and  many  a  lordly  thing, 
And  showed  that  face  well  known  unto  the  King, 
That,  smiling  yesterday,  right  humble  words 
Had  spoken  midst  the  concourse  of  the  lords. 

But  now  he  said,  ' '  Man,  thou  wert  cursing  me 
If  these  folk  heard  aright ;  what  wilt  thou  then, 
Deem'st  thou  that  I  have  done  some  wrong  to  thee, 
Or  hast  thou  scath  from  any  of  my  men  ? 
In  any  case  tell  all  thy  tale  again 
When  on  the  judgment-seat  thou  see'st  me  sit, 
And  I  will  give  no  careless  ear  to  it " 

"  The  night  is  dark,  and  in  the  summer  wind 
The  torches  nicker  ;  canst  thou  see  my  face  ? 
Bid  them  draw  nigher  yet,  and  call  to  mind 
Who  gave  thee  all  thy  riches  and  thy  place  — 
—  Well ;  —  if  thou  canst,  deny  me,  with  such  grace 
As  by  the  firelight  Peter  swore  of  old, 
When  in  that  Maundy -week  the  night  was  cold  — 

"  —  Alas  !  canst  thou  not  see  I  am  the  King?" 
So  spoke  he,  as  their  eyes  met  mid  the  blaze, 
And  the  King  saw  the  dread  foreshadowing, 
Within  the  elder's  proud  and  stony  gaze, 
Of  what  those  lips,  thin  with  the  lapse  of  days, 
Should  utter  now ;  nor  better  it  befell ;  — 
".Friend,  a  strange  story  thou  art  pleased  to  tell ; 


THE  PROUD  KING.  207 

"  Thy  luck  it  is  thou  tellest  it  to  me, 
Who  deem  thee  mad  and  let  thee  go  thy  way  : 
The  King  is  not  a  man  to  pity  thee, 
Or  on  thy  folly  thy  fool's  tale  to  lay  : 
Poor  fool !  take  this,  and  with  the  light  of  day 
Buy  food  and  raiment  of  some  laboring  clown, 
And  by  my  counsel  keep  thee  from  the  town, 

' '  For  fear  thy  madness  break  out  in  some  place 
Where  folk  thy  body  to  the  judge  must  hale, 
And  then  indeed  wert  thou  in  evil  case,  — 
Press  on,  sirs  !  or  the  time  will  not  avail." 
—  There  stood  the  King,  with  limbs  that  'gan  to  fail, 
Speechless,  and  holding  in  his  trembling  hand 
A  coin  new  stamped  for  people  of  the  land  ; 

Thereon,  with  sceptre,  crown,  and  royal  robe, 
The  image  of  a  king,  himself,  was  wrought ; 
His  jewelled  feet  upon  a  quartered  globe, 
As  though  by  him  all  men  were  vain  and  naught 
One  moment  the  red  glare  the  silver  caught, 
As  the  lord  ceased,  the  next  his  hurrying  folk 
The  flaring  circle  round  the  litter  broke. 

The  next,  their  shadows  barred  a  patch  of  light, 
Fast  vanishing,  all  else  around  was  black ; 
And  the  poor  wretch,  left  lonely  with  the  night, 
Muttered,  "  I  wish  the  day  would  ne'er  come  back, 
If  all  that  once  I  had  I  now  must  lack  : 
Ah  God !  how  long  is  it  since  I  was  king, 
Nor  lacked  enough  to  wish  for  anything?  " 

Then  down  the  lonely  road  he  wandered  yet, 
Following  the  vanished  lights,  he  scarce  knew  why, 
Till  he  began  his  sorrows  to  forget, 
And,  steeped  in  drowsiness,  at  last  drew  nigh 
A  grassy  bank,  where,  worn  with  misery, 
He  slept  the  dreamless  sleep  of  weariness, 
That  many  a  time  such  wretches'  eyes  will  bless. 


208  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 


BUT  at  the  dawn  he  woke,  nor  knew  at  first 
What  ugly  chain  of  grief  had  brought  him  there, 
Nor  why  he  felt  so  wretched  and  accursed  ; 
At  last  remembering,  the  fresh  morning  air, 
The  rising  sun,  and  all  things  fresh  and  fair, 
Yet  caused  some  little  hope  in  him  to  rise, 
That  end  might  come  to  these  new  miseries. 

So  looking  round  about,  he  saw  that  he 
To  his  own  city  gates  was  come  anear ; 
Then  he  arose  and  going  warily, 
And  hiding  now  and  then  for  very  fear 
Of  folk  who  bore  their  goods  and  country  cheer 
Unto  the  city's  market,  at  the  last 
Unto  a  stone's-throw  of  the  gate  he  passed. 

But  when  he  drew  unto  the  very  gate, 
Into  the  throng  of  country  folk  he  came 
Who  for  the  opening  of  the  door  did  wait, 
Of  whom  some  mocked,  and  some  cried  at  him  shame, 
And  some  would  know  his  country  and  his  name ; 
But  one  into  his  wagon  drew  him  up, 
And  gave  him  milk  from  out  a  beechen  cup, 

And  asked  him  of  his  name  and  misery  ; 
Then  in  his  throat  a  swelling  passion  rose, 
Which  yet  he  swallowed  down,  and,  "  Friend,"  said -he, 
"  Last  night  I  had  the  hap  to  meet  the  foes 
Of  God  and  man,  who  robbed  me,  and  with  blows 
Stripped  off  my  weed  and  left  me  on  the  way  : 
Thomas  the  Pilgrim  am  I  called  to-day. 

"A  merchant  am  I  of  another  town, 
And  rich  enow  to  pay  thee  for  thy  deed, 
If  at  the  King's  door  thou  wilt  set  me  down, 
For  there  a  squire  I  know,  who  at  my  need 
Will  give  me  food  and  drink  and  fitting  weed. 
What  is  thy  name  ?  in  what  place  dost  thou  live  ? 
That  I  some  day  great  gifts  to  thee  may  give." 

"  Fair  Sir,"  the  carle  said,  "  I  am  poor  enow, 
Though  certes  food  I  lack  not  easily ; 
My  name  is  Christopher  a-Green  ;  I  sow 
A  little  orchard  set  with  bush  and  tree, 


THE  PROUD  KING.  209 

And  ever  there  the  kind  land  keepeth  me, 

For  I,  now  fifty,  from  a  little  boy 

Have  dwelt  thereon,  and  known  both  grief  and  joy. 

"  The  house  my  grandsire  built  there  has  grown  old, 
And  certainly  a  bounteous  gift  it  were 
If  thou  shouldst  give  me  just  enough  of  gold 
To  build  it  new ;  nor  shouldst  thou  lack  my  prayer 
For  such  a  gift."     "  Nay,  friend,  have  thou  no  care," 
The  King  said  :   ' '  this  is  but  a  little  thing 
To  me,  who  oft  am  richer  than  the  King. " 

Now  as  they  talked  the  gate  was  opened  wide, 
And  toward  the  palace  went  they  through  the  street, 
And  Christopher  walked  ever  by  the  side 
Of  his  rough  wain,  where  midst  the  Mayflowers  sweet 
Jovinian  lay,  that  folk  whom  they  might  meet 
Might  see  him  not  to  mock  at  his  bare  skin  : 
So  shortly  to  the  King's  door  did  they  win. 

Then  through  the  open  gate  Jovinian  ran 
Of  the  first  court,  and  no  man  stayed  him  there  ; 
But  as  he  reached  the  second  gate,  a  man 
Of  the  King's  household,  seeing  him  all  bare 
And  bloody,  cried  out,  ' '  Whither  dost  thou  fare  ? 
Sure  thou  art  seventy  times  more  mad  than  mad, 
Or  else  some  magic  potion  thou  hast  had, 

"Whereby  thou  fear'st  not  steel  or  anything." 
"But,"  said  the  King,  "good  fellow,  I  know  thee; 
And  can  it  be  thou  knowest  not  thy  King  ? 
Nay,  thou  shall  have  a  good  reward  of  me, 
That  thou  wouldst  rather  have  than  ten  years'  fee, 
If  thou  wilt  clothe  me  in  fair  weed  again, 
For  now  to  see  my  council  am  I  fain." 

"  Out,  ribald  ! "  quoth  the  fellow,  "  What  say'st  thou  ? 
Thou  art  my  lord,  whom  God  reward  and  bless  ? 
Truly  before  long  shalt  thou  find  out  how 
John  Hangman  cureth  ill  folk's  wilfulness ; 
Yea,  from  his  scourge  the  blood  has  run  for  less 
Than  that  which  now  thou  sayest :  nay,  what  say  I  ? 
For  lighter  words  have  I  seen  tall  men  die. 

"  Come  now,  the  sergeants  to  this  thing  shall  see  ! " 
So  to  the  guardroom  was  Jovinian  brought, 
14 


io  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Where  his  own  soldiers  mocked  him  bitterly, 
And  all  his  desperate  words  they  heeded  naught ; 
Until  at  last  there  came  to  him  this  thought, 
That  never  from  this  misery  should  he  win, 
But,  spite  of  all  his  struggles,  die  therein. 

And  terrible  it  seemed,  that  everything 
So  utterly  was  changed  since  yesterday, 
That  these  who  were  the  soldiers  of  the  King, 
Ready  to  lie  down  in  the  common  way 
Before  him,  nor  durst  rest  if  he  bade  play, 
Now  stood  and  mocked  him,  knowing  not  the  face 
At  whose  command  each  man  there  had  his  place. 

"  Ah,  God  !  "  said  he,  "  is  this  another  earth 
From  that  whereon  I  stood  two  days  ago  ? 
Or  else  in  sleep  have  I  had  second  birth  ? 
Or  among  mocking  shadows  do  I  go, 
Unchanged  myself  of  flesh  and  fell,  although 
My  fair  weed  I  have  lost  and  royal  gear  ? 
And  meanwhile  all  are  changed  that  I  meet  here  ; 

"  And  yet  in  heart  and  nowise  outwardly." 
Amid  his  wretched  thoughts  two  sergeants  came, 
Who  said,  "  Hold,  sirs  !  because  the  King  would  see 
The  man  who  thus  so  rashly  brings  him  shame, 
By  taking  his  high  style  and  spotless  name, 
That  never  has  been  questioned  ere  to-day. 
Come,  fool !  needs  is  it  thou  must  go  our  way." 

So  at  the  sight  of  him  all  men  turned  round, 
As  'twixt  these  two  across  the  courts  he  went, 
With  downcast  head  and  hands  together  bound  ; 
While  from  the  windows  maid  and  varlet  leant, 
And  through  the  morning  air  fresh  laughter  sent ; 
Until  unto  the  threshold  they  were  come 
Of  the  great  hall  within  that  kingly  home. 

Therewith  right  fast  Jovinian's  heart  must  beat, 
As  now  he  thought,  "  Lo,  here  shall  end  the  strife ; 
For  either  shall  I  sit  on  mine  own  seat, 
Known  unto  all,  soldier  and  lord  and  wife, 
Or  else  is  this  the  ending  of  my  life, 
And  no  man  henceforth  shall  remember  me, 
And  a  vain  name  in  records  shall  I  be." 


THE  PROUD  KING. 

Therewith  he  raised  his  head  up,  and  beheld 
One  clad  in  gold  set  on  his  royal  throne, 
Gold-crowned,  whose  hand  the  ivory  sceptre  held  ; 
And  underneath  him  sat  the  Queen  alone, 
Ringed  round  with  standing  lords,  of  whom  not  one 
Did  aught  but  utmost  reverence  unto  him  ; 
Then  did  Jovinian  shake  in  every  limb. 

Yet  midst  amaze  and  rage  to  him  it  seemed 
This  man  was  nowise  like  him  in  the  face ; 
But  with  a  marvellous  glory  his  head  gleamed, 
As  though  an  angel  sat  in  that  high  place, 
Where  erst  he  sat  like  all  his  royal  race,  — 
—  But  their  eyes  met,  and  with  a  stern,  calm  brow 
The  shining  one  cried  out,  "  And  where  art  thou  ? 

"  Where  art  thou,  robber  of  my  majesty  ?  " 
"Was  I  not  King,"  he  said,  "but  yesterday? 
And  though  to-day  folk  give  my  place  to  thee, 
I  am  Jovinian  ;  yes,  though  none  gainsay, 
If  on  these  very  stones  thou  shouldst  me  slay, 
And  though  no  friend  be  left  for  me  to  moan, 
I  am  Jovinian  still,  and  King  alone. " 

Then  said  that  other,  ' '  O  thou  foolish  man, 
King  was  I  yesterday,  and  long  before, 
Nor  is  my  name  aught  but  Jovinian, 
Whom  in  this  house  the  Queen  my  mother  bore, 
Unto  my  longing  father,  for  right  sore 
Was  I  desired  before  I  saw  the  light ; 
Thou,  fool,  art  first  to  speak  against  my  right 

"  And  surely  well  thou  men  test  to  die  ; 
Yet  ere  that  I  bid  lead  thee  unto  death, 
Hearken  to  these  my  lords  that  stand  anigh, 
And  what  this  faithful  Queen  beside  me  saith, 
Then  mayst  thou  many  a  year  hence  draw  thy  breath, 
If  these  should  stammer  in  their  speech  one  whit : 
Beholcl  this  face,  lords,  look  ye  well  on  it ! 

"  Thou,  O  fair  Queen,  say  now  whose  face  is  this ! " 
Then  cried  they,  "  Hail,  O  Lord  Jovinian  ! 
Long  mayst  thou  live  !  "  and  the  Queen  knelt  to  kiss 
His  gold-shod  feet,  and  through  her  face  there  ran 
Sweet  color,  as  she  said,  "Thou  art  the  man 
By  whose  side  I  have  lain  for  many  a  year, 
Thou  art  my  lord  Jovinian  lief  and  dear." 


12  THE   EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Then  said  he,  "  O  thou  wretch,  heai-  now  and  see  ! 
What  thing  should  hinder  me  to  slay  thee  now  ? 
And  yet  indeed,  such  mercy  is  in  me, 
If  thou  wilt  kneel  down  humbly  and  avow 
Thou  art  no  king,  but  base-born,  as  I  know 
Thou  art  indeed,  in  mine  house  shalt  thou  live, 
And  as  thy  service  is,  so  shalt  thou  thrive. " 

But  the  unhappy  king  laughed  bitterly, 
The  red  blood  rose  to  flush  his  visage  wan 
Where  erst  the  gray  of  death  began  to  be  ; 
"Thou  liest,"  he  said,  "  I  am  Jovinian, 
Come  of  great  kings  ;  nor  am  I  such  a  man 
As  still  to  live  when  all  delight  is  gone, 
As  thou  might'st  do,  who  sittest  on  my  throne." 

No  answer  made  the  other  for  a  while, 
But  sat  and  gazed  upon  him  steadfastly, 
Until  across  his  face  there  came  a  smile, 
Where  scorn  seemed  mingled  with  some  great  pity. 
And  then  he  said,  "  Nathless  thou  shalt  not  die, 
But  live  on  as  thou  mayst,  a  lowly  man 
Forgetting  thou  wast  once  Jovinian. " 

Then  wildly  round  the  hall  Jovinian  gazed, 
Turning  about  to  many  a  well-known  face, 
But  none  of  all  his  folk  seemed  grieved  or  mazed, 
But  stood  unmoved,  each  in  his  wonted  place  ; 
There  were  the  Lords,  the  Marshal  with  his  mace, 
The  Chamberlain,  the  Captain  of  the  Guard, 
Gray-headed,  with  his  wrinkled  face  and  hard, 

That  had  peered  down  so  many  a  lane  of  war  ; 
There  stood  the  grave  ambassadors  arow, 
Come  from  half  conquered  lands  ;  without  the  bar 
The  foreign  merchants  gazed  upon  the  show, 
Willing  new  things  of  that  great  land  to  know  ; 
Nor  was  there  any  doubt  in  any  man 
That  the  gold  throne  still  held  Jovinian. 

Yea,  as  the  sergeants  laid  their  hands  on  him, 
The  mighty  hound  that  crouched  before  the  throne,     . 
Flew  at  him  fain  to  tear  him  limb  from  limb, 
Though  in  the  woods,  the  brown  bear's  dying  groan, 
He  and  that  beast  had  often  heard  alone. 
"  Ah  ! "  muttered  he,  "  take  thou  thy  wages  too, 
Worship  the  risen  sun  as  these  men  do." 


THE  PROUD  KING.  213 

They  thrust  him  out,  and  as  he  passed  the  door, 
The  murmur  of  the  stately  court  he  heard 
Behind  him,  and  soft  footfalls  on  the  floor, 
And,  though  by  this  somewhat  his  skin  was  seared, 
Hung  back  at  the  rough  eager  wind  afeard ; 
But  from  the  place  they  dragged  him  through  the  gate, 
Wherethrough  he  oft  had  rid  in  royal  state. 

Then  down  the  streets  they  led  him,  where  of  old, 
He,  coming  back  from  some  well-finished  war, 
Had  seen  the  line  of  flashing  steel  and  gold 
Wind  upwards  'twixt  the  houses  from  the  bar, 
While  clashed  the  bells  from  wreathed  spires  afar ; 
Now  moaning,  as  they  hailed  him  on,  he  said, 
"  God  and  the  world  against  one  lonely  head !  " 


BUT  soon,  the  bar  being  passed,  they  loosed  their  hold, 
And  said,  "  Thus  saith  by  us  our  Lord  the  King, 
Dwell  now  in  peace,  but  yet  be  not  so  bold 
To  come  again,  or  to  thy  lies  to  cling, 
Lest  unto  thee  there  fall  a  worser  thing ; 
And  for  ourselves  we  bid  thee  ever  pray 
For  him  who  has  been  good  to  thee  this  day." 

Therewith  they  turned  away  into  the  town, 
And  still  he  wandered  on  and  knew  not  where, 
Till,  stumbling  at  the  last,  he  fell  adown, 
And  looking  round  beheld  a  brook  right  fair, 
That  ran  in  pools  and  shallows  here  and  there, 
And  on  the  further  side  of  it  a  wood, 
Nigh  which  a  lowly  clay-built  hovel  stood. 

Gazing  thereat,  it  came  into  his  mind 
A  priest  dwelt  there,  a  hermit  wise  and  old, 
Whom  he  had  ridden  oftentimes  to  find, 
In  days  when  first  the  sceptre  he  did  hold, 
And  unto  whom  his  mind  he  oft  had  told, 
And  had  good  counsel  from  him,  though  indeed 
A  scanty  crop  had  sprung  from  that  good  seed. 

Therefore  he  passed  the  brook  with  heavy  cheer, 
And  toward  the  little  house  went  speedily, 
And  at  the  door  knocked,  trembling  with  his  fear, 
Because  he  thought,  "  Will  he  remember  me? 


214  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

If  not,  within  me  must  there  surely  be 
Some  devil  who  turns  everything  to  ill, 
And  makes  my  wretched  body  do  his  will." 

So,  while  such  doleful  things  as  this  he  thought, 
There  came  unto  the  door  the  holy  man, 
Who  said,  "  Good  friend,  what  tidings  hast  thou  brought?  " 
"  Father,"  he  said,  "  knowest  thou  Jovinian  ? 
Know'st  thou  me  not,  made  naked,  poor,  and  wan  ? 
Alas,  O  father,  am  I  not  the  King, 
The  rightful  lord  of  thee  and  everything  ?  " 

"  Nay,  thou  art  mad  to  tell  me  such  a  tale  !  " 
The  hermit  said  ;  "  if  thou  seek'st  soul's  health  here, 
Right  little  will  such  words  as  this  avail ; 
It  were  a  better  deed  to  shrive  thee  clear, 
And  take  the  pardon  Christ  has  bought  so  dear, 
Than  to  an  ancient  man  such  mocks  to  say 
That  would  be  fitter  for  a  Christmas  play." 

So  to  his  hut  he  got  him  back  again, 
And  fell  the  unhappy  King  upon  his  knees, 
And  unto  God  at  last  he  did  complain, 
Saying,  "  Lord  God,  what  bitter  things  are  these? 
What  hast  thou  done,  that  every  man  that  sees 
This  wretched  body,  of  my  death  is  fain  ? 

0  Lord  God,  give  me  back  myself  again ! 

"  E'en  if  therewith  I  needs  must  die  straightway. 
Indeed  I  know  that  since  upon  the  earth 

1  first  did  go,  I  ever  day  by  day 

Have  grown  the  worse,  who  was  of  little  worth 
E'en  at  the  best  time  since  my  helpless  birth. 
And  yet  it  pleased  thee  once  to  make  me  king, 
Why  hast  thou  made  me  now  this  wretched  thing  ? 

"  Why  am  I  hated  so  of  every  one  ? 
Wilt  thou  not  let  me  live  my  life  again, 
Forgetting  all  the  deeds  that  I  have  done, 
Forgetting  my  old  name,  and  honors  vain, 
That  I  may  cast  away  this  lonely  pain  ? 
Yet  if  thou  wilt  not,  help  me  in  this  strife, 
That  I  may  pass  my  little  span  of  life, 

"  Not  made  a  monster  by  unhappiness. 
What  shall  I  say  ?  thou  mad'st  me  weak  of  will, 


THE  PROUD  KING.  215 

Thou  wrapped'st  me  in  ease  and  carelessness, 
And  yet,  as  some  folk  say,  thou  lovest  me  still ; 
Look  down,  of  folly  I  have  had  my  fill, 
And  am  but  now  as  first  thou  madest  me, 
Weak,  yielding  clay  to  take  impress  of  thee." 

So  said  he  weeping,  and  but  scarce  had  done, 
When  yet  again  came  forth  that  hermit  old, 
And  said,  "  Alas  !  my  master  and  my  son, 
Is  this  a  dream  my  wearied  eyes  behold  ? 
What  doleful  wonder  now  shall  I  be  told 
Of  that  ill  world  that  I  so  long  have  left  ? 
What  thing  thy  glory  from  thee  has  bereft  ?  " 

A  strange  surprise  of  joy  therewith  there  came 
To  that  worn  heart ;  he  said,  "  For  some  great  sin 
The  Lord  my  God  has  brought  me  unto  shame ; 
1  am  unknown  of  servants,  wife,  and  kin, 
Unknown  of  all  the  lords  that  stand  within 
My  father's  house ;  nor  didst  thou  know  me  more 
When  e'en  just  now  I  stood  before  thy  door. 

"Now  since  thou know'st  me,  surely  God  is  good, 
And  will  not  slay  me,  and  good  hope  I  have 
Of  help  from  Him  that  died  upon  the  rood, 
And  is  a  mighty  lord  to  slay  and  save  : 
So  now  again  these  blind  men  will  I  brave, 
If  thou  wilt  give  me  of  thy  poorest  weed, 
And  some  rough  food,  the  which  I  sorely  need ; 

"  Then  of  my  sins  thou  straight  shalt  shrive  me  clean." 
Then  weeping,  said  the  holy  man,  "  Dear  lord, 
What  heap  of  woes  upon  thine  head  has  been  ; 
Enter,  O  King,  take  this  rough  gown  and  cord, 
And  scanty  food,  my  hovel  can  afford  ; 
And  tell  me  everything  thou  hast  to  say ; 
And  then  the  High  God  speed  thee  on  thy  way." 

So  when  in  coarse  serge  raiment  he  was  clad, 
He  told  him  all  his  pride  had  made  him  think  ; 
And  showed  him  of  his  life  both  good  and  bad  ; 
And  then  being  houselled,  did  he  eat  and  drink, 
While  in  the  wise  man's  heart  his  words  did  sink, 
For,  "  God  be  praised  ! "  he  thought,  "  I  am  no  king, 
Who  scarcely  shall  do  right  in  anything  !  " 


216  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Then  he  made  ready  for  the  King  his  ass, 
And  bade  again  God  speed  him  on  the  way, 
And  down  the  road  the  King  made  haste  to  pass 
As  it  was  growing  toward  the  end  of  day, 
With  sober  joy  for  troubles  passed  away  ; 
But  trembling  still,  as  onward  he  did  ride, 
Meeting  few  folk  upon  that  even-tide. 


SO  to  the  city  gate  being  come  at  last, 
He  noted  there  two  ancient  warders  stand, 
Whereof  one  looked  askance  as  he  went  past, 
And  whispered  low  behind  his  held-up  hand 
Unto  his  mate,  "The  King,  who  gave  command 
That  if  disguised  he  passed  this  gate  to-day, 
No  reverence  we  should  do  him  on  the  way. " 

Thereat  with  joy,  Jovinian  smiled  again, 
And  so  passed  onward  quickly  down  the  street ; 
And  wellnigh  was  he  eased  of  all  his  pain 
When  he  beheld  the  folk  that  he  might  meet 
Gaze  hard  at  him,  as  though  they  fain  would  greet 
His  well-known  face,  but  durst  not,  knowing  well 
He  would  not  any  of  his  state  should  tell. 

Withal  unto  the  palace  being  come, 
He  lighted  down  thereby  and  entered, 
And  once  again  it  seemed  his  royal  home, 
For  folk  again  before  him  bowed  the  head  ; 
And  to  him  came  a  Squire,  who  softly  said, 
"  The  Queen  awaits  thee,  O  my  lord  the  King, 
Within  the  little  hall  where  minstrels  sing, 

"  Since  there  thou  badst  her  meet  thee  on  this  night" 
"  Lead  on  then  !  "  said  the  King,  and  in  his  heart 
He  said,  "  Perfay  all  goeth  more  than  right 
And  I  am  King  again  "  ;  but  with  a  start 
He  thought  of  him  who  played  the  kingly  part 
That  morn,  yet  said,  "  If  God  will  have  it  so 
This  man  like  all  the  rest  my  face  will  know." 

So  in  the  little  hall  the  Queen  he  found, 
Asleep,  as  one  a  spell  binds  suddenly  ; 
For  her  fair  broidery  lay  upon  the  ground, 


THE  PROUD  KING. 

And  in  her  lap  her  open  hand  did  lie 
The  silken-threaded  needle  close  thereby  • 
And  by  her  stood  that  image  of  the  King' 
In  rich  apparel,  crown,  and  signet  ring. 

But  when  the  King  stepped  forth  with  angry  eye 
And  would  have  spoken,  came  a  sudden  light 
And  changed  was  that  other  utterly ; 
For  he  was  clad  in  robe  of  shining  white 
Inwrought  with  flowers  of  unnamed  colors  bright 
Crtrt  with  a  marvellous  girdle,  and  whose  hem 
i-ell  to  his  naked  feet  and  shone  in  them  j 

And  from  his  shoulders  did  two  wings  arise 
I  hat  with  the  swaying  of  his  body,  played 
This  way  and  that ;  of  strange  and  lovely  dyes 
ineir  feathers  were,  and  wonderfully  made  • 
And  now  he  spoke,  "  O  King,  be  not  dismayed, 
Or  think  my  coming  here  so  strange  to  be 
I1  or  oft  ere  this  have  I  been  close  to  thee. 

TU"  £n  1  n,°vv  thou  knowest  in  how  short  a  space 
i  :i      ^  made  the  world  can  unmake  thee, 
And  though  he  alter  in  no  whit  thy  face 
Can  make  all  folk  forget  thee  utterly, 
i  hat  thou  to-day  a  nameless  wretch  mayst  be, 
Who  yesterday  woke  up  without  a  peer, 
ie  wide  world's  marvel  and  the  people's  fear. 

"Behold,  thou  oughtest  to  thank  God  for  this 
That  on   he  hither  side  of  thy  dark  grave 
Thou  well  hast  learned  how  great  a  God  he  is, 
Who  from  the  heavens  countless  rebels  drave, 
Yet  turns  himself  such  folk  as  thee  to  save  • 
For  many  a  man  thinks  naught  at  all  of  it,  ' 

11  m  a  darksome  land  he  comes  to  sit, 

"Lamenting  everything  :  so  do  not  thou  ! 
For  inasmuch  as  thou  thought'st  not  to  die 
ims  thing  may  happen  to  thee  even  now, 
Because  the  day  unspeakable  draws  nigh, 

Anrienf  >i    Cd  ln  unknown  flame  all  things  shall  lie; 
And  ,f  thou  art  upon  God's  side  that  day 
islam,  thine  earthly  part  shall  pass  away. 

"  Or  if  thy  body  in  the  grave  must  rot, 


218  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Well  mayst  thou  see  how  small  a  thing  is  this, 
Whose  pain  of  yesterday  now  hurts  thee  not, 
Now  thou  hast  come  again  to  earthly  bliss, 
Though  bitter-sweet  thou  knowest  well  this  is, 
And  though  no  coming  day  can  ever  see 
Ending  of  happiness  where  thou  mayst  be. 

"  Now  must  I  go,  nor  wilt  thou  see  me  more, 
Until  die  day,  when,  unto  thee  at  least, 
This  world  is  gone,  and  an  unmeasured  shore, 
Where  all  is  wonderful  and  changed,  thou  seest  : 
Therefore,  farewell !  at  council  and  at  feast . 
Thy  nobles  shalt  thou  meet  as  thou  hast  done, 
Nor  wilt  thou  more  be  strange  to  any  one, " 

So  scarce  had  he  done  speaking,  ere  his  wings 
Within  the  doorway  of  the  hall  did  gleam, 
And  then  he  vanished  quite  ;  and  all  these  things 
Unto  Jovinian  little  more  did  seem 
Than  some  distinct  and  well-remembered  dream, 
From  which  one  wakes  amidst  a  feverish  night, 
Taking  the  moonshine  for  the  morning  light 

Silent  he  stood,  not  moving  for  a  while. 
Pondering  o'er  all  these  wondrous  things,  until 
The  Queen  arose  from  sleep,  and  with  a  smile, 
Said,  "  O  fair  lord,  your  great  men  by  your  will 
E'en  as  I  speak  the  banquet- chamber  fill, 
To  greet  thee  amidst  joy  and  revelling, 
Wilt  thou  not  therefore  meet  them  as  a  king  ?  " 

So  from  that  place  of  marvels  having  gone, 
Half  mazed,  he  soon  was  clad  in  rich  array, 
And  sat  thereafter  on  his  kingly  throne, 
As  though  no  other  had  sat  there  that  day ; 
Nor  did  a  soul  of  all  his  household  say 
A  word  about  the  man,  who  on  that  morn 
Had  stood  there  naked,  helpless,  and  forlorn. 

But  ever  day  by  day  the  thought  of  it 
Within  Jovinian's  heart  the  clearer  grew, 
As  o'er  his  head  the  ceaseless  time  did  flit, 
And  everything  still  towards  its  ending  drew, 
New  things  becoming  old,  and  old  things  new  ; 
Till,  when  a  moment  of  eternity 
Had  passed,  gray-headed  did  Jovinian  lie 


THE  PROUD  KING.  219 

One  sweet  May  morning,  wakeful  in  his  bed  ; 
And  thought,  ' '  That  day  is  thirty  years  agone 
Since  useless  folly  came  into  my  head, 
Whereby,  before  the  steps  of  mine  own  throne, 
I  stood  in  helpless  agony  alone, 
And  of  the  wondrous  things  that  there  befell, 
When  I  am  gone  there  will  be  none  to  tell : 

"  No  man  is  now  alive  who  thinks  that  he, 
Who  bade  thrust  out  the  madman  on  that  tide, 
Was  other  than  the  King  they  used  to  see  : 
Long  years  have  passed  now,  since  the  hermit  died, 
So  must  I  tell  the  tale,  ere  by  his  side 
I  lie,  lest  it  be  unrecorded  quite, 
Like  a  forgotten  dream  in  morning  light. 

"  Yea,  lest  I  die  ere  night  come,  this  same  day 
Unto  some  scribe  will  I  tell  everything, 
That  it  may  lie  when  I  am  gone  away, 
Stored  up  within  the  archives  of  the  King ; 
And  may  God  grant  the  words  thereof  may  ring 
Like  His  own  voice  in  the  next  comer's  ears ! 
Whereby  his  folk  shall  shed  the  fewer  tears." 

So  it  was  done,  and  at  the  King's  command 
A  clerk  that  day  did  note  it  every  whit, 
And  after  by  a  man  of  skilful  hand 
In  golden  letters  fairly  was  it  writ ; 
Yet  little  heed  the  new  King  took  of  it 
That  filled  the  throne  when  King  Jovinian  died, 
So  much  did  all  things  feed  his  swelling  pride. 

But  whether  God  chastised  him  in  his  turn, 
And  he  grew  wise  thereafter,  I  know  not ; 
I  think  by  eld  alone  he  came  to  learn 
How  lowly  on  some  day  must  be  his  lot. 
But  ye,  O  kings,  think  all  that  ye  have  got 
To  be  but  gawds  cast  out  upon  some  heap, 
And  stolen  the  while  the  Master  was  asleep. 


220  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 


r  I  "HE  story  done,  for  want  of  happier  things, 
JL     Some  men  must  even  fall  to  talk  of  kings  ; 
Some  trouble  of  a  far-off  Grecian  isle, 
Some  hard  Sicilian  craftsman's  cruel  guile 
Whereby  he  raised  himself  to  be  as  God, 
Till  good  men  slew  him  ;  the  fell  Persian  rod 
As  blighting  as  the  deadly  pestilence, 
The  brazen  net  of  armed  men  from  whence 
Was  no  escape ;  The  fir-built  Norway  hall 
Filled  with  the  bonders  waiting  for  the  fall 
Of  the  great  roof  whereto  the  torch  is  set ; 
The  laughing  mouth,  beneath  the  eyes  still  wet 
With  more  than  sea-spray,  as  the  well-loved  land 
The  freeman  still  looks  back  on,  while  his  hand 
Clutches  the  tiller,  and  the  eastern  breeze 
Grows  fresh  and  fresher  :  many  things  like  these 
They  talked  about,  till  they  seemed  young  again, 
Remembering  what  a  glory  and  a  gain 
Their  fathers  deemed  the  death  of  kings  to  be. 

And  yet  amidst  it,  some  smiled  doubtfully 
For  thinking  how  few  men  escape  the  yoke, 
From  this  or  that  man's  hand,  and  how  most  folk 
Must  needs  be  kings  and  slaves  the  while  they  live, 
And  take  from  this  man,  and  to  that  man  give 
Things  hard  enow.     Yet  as  they  mused,  again 
The  minstrels  raised  some  high  heroic  strain 
That  led  men  on  to  battle  in  old  times ; 
And  midst  the  glory  of  its  mingling  rhymes, 
Their  hard  hearts  softened,  and  strange  thoughts  arose 
Of  some  new  end  to  all  life's  cruel  foes. 


MAY. 


OLOVE,  this  morn  when  the  sweet  nightingale 
Had  so  long  finished  all  he  had  to  say, 
That  thou  hadst  slept,  and  sleep  had  told  his  tale  ; 
And  midst  a  peaceful  dream  had  stolen  away 
In  fragrant  dawning  of  the  first  of  May, 
Didst  thou  see  aught  ?  didst  thou  hear  voices  sing, 
Ere  to  the  risen  sun  the  bells  'gan  ring  ?  .   . ; 

For  then  methought  the  Lord  of  Love  went  by 
To  take  possession  of  his  flowery  throne, 
Ringed  round  with  maids,  and  youths,  and  minstrelsy ; 
A  little  while  I  sighed  to  find  him  gone, 
A  little  while  the  dawning  was  alone, 
And  the  light  gathered  ;  then  I  held  my  breath, 
And  shuddered  at  the  sight  of  Eld  and  Death. 

Alas  !  Love  passed  me  in  the  twilight  dun, 
His  music  hushed  the  wakening  ousel's  song ; 
But  on  these  twain  shone  out  the  golden  sun, 
And  o'er  their  heads  the  brown  birds'  tune  was  strong, 
As  shivering,  'twixt  the  trees  they  stole  along  ; 
None  noted  aught  their  noiseless  passing  by, 
The  world  had  quite  forgotten  it  must  die. 


NOW  must  these  men  be  glad  a  little  while 
That  they  had  lived  to  see  May  once  more  smile 
Upon  the  earth  ;  wherefore,  as  men  who  know 
How  fast  the  bad  days  and  the  good  days  go, 
They  gathered  at  the  feast :  the  fair  abode 
\Vherein  they  sat,  o'erlooked,  across  the  road 
Unhedged  green   meads,   which  willowy  streams    passed 

through, 

And  on  that  morn,  before  the  fresh  May  dew 
Had  dried  upon  the  sunniest  spot  of  grass, 
From  bush  to  bush  did  youths  and  maidens  pass 


22  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

In  raiment  meet  for  May  apparelled, 

Gathering  the  milk-white  blossoms  and  the  red  ; 

And  now,  with  noon  long  past,  and  that  bright  day 

Growing  aweary,  on  the  sunny  way 

They  wandered,  crowned  with  flowers,  and  loitering, 

And  weary,  yet  were  fresh  enough  to  sing 

The  carols  of  the  morn,  and  pensive,  still 

Had  cast  away  their  doubt  of  death  and  ill, 

And  flushed  with  love,  no  more  grew  red  with  shame. 

So  to  the  elders  as  they  sat,  there  came, 
With  scent  of  flowers,  the  murmur  of  that  folk 
Wherethrough  from  time  to  time  a  song  outbroke, 
Till  scarce  they  thought  about  the  story  due ; 
Yet,  when  anigh  to  sunsetting  it  grew, 
A  book  upon  the  board  an  elder  laid, 
And  turning  from  the  open  window  said, 
"  Too  fair  a  tale  the  lovely  time  doth  ask, 
For  this  of  mine  to  be  an  easy  task, 
Yet  in  what  words  soever  this  is  writ, 
As  for  the  matter,  I  dare  say  of  it 
That  it  is  lovely  as  the  lovely  May  ; 
Pass  then  the  manner,  since  the  learned  say 
No  written  record  was  there  of  the  tale, 
Ere  we  from  our  fair  land  of  Greece  set  sail ; 
How  this  may  be  I  know  not,  this  I  know 
That  such-like  tales  the  wind  would  seem  to  blow 
From  place  to  place,  e'en  as  the  feathery  seed 
Is  borne  across  the  sea  to  help  the  need 
Of  barren  isles ;  so,  sirs,  from  seed  thus  sown, 
This  flower,  a  gift  from  other  lands  has  grown. 


THE   STORY  OF  CUPID   AND   PSYCHE. 


ARGUMENT. 

PSYCHE,  a  king's  daughter,  by  her  exceeding  beauty  caused  the  people  to 
forget  Venus  ;  therefore  the  goddess  would  fain  have  destroyed  her  : 
nevertheless  she  became  the  bride  of  Love,  yet  in  an  unhappy  moment 
lost  him  by  her  own  fault,  and  wandering  through  the  world  suffered 
many  evils  at  the  hands  of  Venus,  for  whom  she  must  accomplish  fear 
ful  tasks.  But  the  gods  and  all  nature  helped  her,  and  in  process  of 
time  she  was  reunited  to  Love,  forgiven  by  Venus,  and  made  immortal 
by  the  Father  of  gods  and  men. 

IN  the  Greek  land  of  old  there  was  a  King 
Happy  in  battle,  rich  in  everything  ; 
Most  rich  in  this,  that  he  a  daughter  had 
Whose  beauty  made  the  longing  city  glad. 
She  was  so  fair,  that  strangers  from  the  sea 
Just  landed,  in  the  temples  thought  that  she 
Was  Venus  visible  to  mortal  eyes, 
New  come  from  Cyprus  for  a  world's  surprise. 
She  was  so  beautiful  that  had  she  stood 
On  windy  Ida  by  the  oaken  wood, 
And  bared  her  limbs  to  that  bold  shepherd's  gaze, 
Troy  might  have  stood  till  now  with  happy  days  ; 
And  those  three  fairest,  all  have  gone  away 
And  left  her  with  the  apple  on  that  day. 

And  Psyche  is  her  name  in  stories  old, 
As  ever  by  our  fathers  we  were  told. 

All  this  beheld  Queen  Venus  from  her  throne, 
And  felt  that  she  no  longer  was  alone 
In  beauty,  but,  if  only  for  a  while, 
This  maiden  matched  her  god-enticing  smile  ; 
Therefore,  she  wrought  in  such  a  wise,  that  she, 
If  honored  as  a  goddess,  certainly 
Was  dreaded  as  a  goddess  none  the  less, 
And  midst  her  wealth,  dwelt  long  in  loneliness. 

Two  sisters  had  she,  and  men  deemed  them  fair, 
But  as  King's  daughters  might  be  anywhere, 


224  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And  these  to  men  of  name  and  great  estate 
Were  wedded,  while  at  home  must  Psyche  wait. 
The  sons  of  kings  before  her  silver  feet 
Still  bowed,  and  sighed  for  her  ;  in  measures  sweet 
The  minstrels  to  the  people  sung  her  praise, 
Yet  must  she  live  a  virgin  all  her  days. 

So  to  Apollo's  fane  her  father  sent, 
Seeking  to  know  the  dreadful  Gods'  intent, 
And  therewith  sent  he  goodly  gifts  of  price 
A  silken  veil,  wrought  with  a  paradise, 
Three  golden  bowls,  set  round  with  many  a  gem, 
Three  silver  robes,  with  gold  in  every  hem, 
And  a  fair  ivory  image  of  the  god 
That  underfoot  a  golden  sequent  trod  ; 
And  when  three  lords  with  these  were  gone  away, 
Nor  could  return  until  the  fortieth  day, 
111  was  the  King  at  ease,  and  neither  took 
Joy  in  the  chase,  or  in  the  pictured  book 
The  skilled  Athenian  limner  had  just  wrought, 
Nor  in  the  golden  cloths  from  India  brought. 

At  last  the  day  came  for  those  lords'  return, 
And  then'twixt  hope  and  fear  the  King  did  burn, 
As  on  his  throne  with  great  pomp  he  was  set, 
And  by  him  Psyche,  knowing  not  as  yet 
Why  they  had  gone :  thus  waiting,  at  noontide 
They  in  the  palace  heard  a  voice  outside, 
And  soon  the  messengers  came  hurrying, 
And  with  pale  faces  knelt  before  the  King, 
And  rent  their  clothes,  and  each  man  on  his  head 
Cast  dust,  the  while  a  trembling  courtier  read 
This  scroll,  wherein  the  fearful  answer  lay, 
Whereat  from  every  face  joy  passed  away. 


THE  ORACLE. 

O  FATHER  of  a  most  unhappy  maid, 
O  King,  whom  all  the  world  henceforth  shall  know 
As  wretched  among  wretches,  be  afraid 
To  ask  the  gods  thy  misery  to  show, 
But  if  thou  needs  must  hear  it,  to  thy  woe 
Take  back  thy  gifts  to  feast  thine  eyes  upon, 
When  thine  own  flesh  and  blood  some  beast  hath  won. 


STORY  OF  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE.          225 

"  For  hear  thy  doom,  a  nigged  rock  there  is 
Set  back  a  league  from  thine  own  palace  fair, 
There  leave  the  maid,  that  she  may  wait  the  kiss 
Of  the  fell  monster  that  doth  harbor  there  : 
This  is  the  mate  for  whom  her  yellow  hair 
And  tender  limbs  have  been  so  fashioned, 
This  is  the  pillow  for  her  lovely  head. 

' '  O  what  an  evil  from  thy  loins  shall  spring, 
For  all  the  world  this  monster  overturns, 
He  is  the  bane  of  every  mortal  thing, 
And  this  world  ruined,  still  for  more  he  yearns  ; 
A  fire  there  goeth  from  his  mouth  that  burns 
Worse  than  the  flame  of  Phlegethon  the  red  — 
To  such  a  monster  shall  thy  maid  be  wed. 

"  And  if  thou  sparest  now  to  do  this  thing, 
I  will  destroy  thee  and  thy  land  also, 
And  of  dead  corpses  shalt  thou  be  the  King, 
And  stumbling  through  the  dark  land  shalt  thou  go, 
Howling  for  second  death  to  end  thy  woe  ; 
Live  therefore  as  thou  mayst  and  do  my  will, 
And  be  a  King  that  men  may  envy  still." 

What  man  was  there,  whose  face  changed  not  for  grief 
At  hearing  this  ?     Psyche,  shrunk  like  the  leaf 
The  autumn  frost  first  touches  on  the  tree, 
Stared  round  about  with  eyes  that  could  not  see, 
And  muttered  sounds  from  lips  that  said  no  word, 
And  still  within  her  ears  the  sentence  heard 
When  all  was  said  and  silence  fell  on  all 
'Twixt  marble  columns  and  adorned  wall. 

Then  spoke  the  King,  bowed  down  with  misery : 
' '  What  help  is  there !  O  daughter,  let  us  die, 
Or  else  together  fleeing  from  this  land, 
From  town  to  town  go  wandering  hand  in  hand ; 
Thou  and  I,  daughter,  till  all  men  forget 
That  ever  on  a  throne  I  have  been  set, 
And  then,  when  houseless  and  disconsolate, 
We  ask  an  alms  before  some  city  gate, 
The  gods  perchance  a  little  gift  may  give, 
And  suffer  thee  and  me  like  beasts  to  live. " 

Then  answered  Psyche,  through  her  bitter  tears, 
' '  Alas  !  my  father,  I  have  known  these  years 
That  with  some  woe  the  gods  have  dowered  me, 
And  weighed  'gainst  riches  infelicity ; 
15 


226  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Ill  is  it  then  against  the  gods  to  strive ; 
Live  on,  O  father,  those  that  are  alive 
May  still  be  happy  ;  would  it  profit  me 
To  live  awhile,  and  ere  I  died  to  see 
Thee  perish,  and  all  folk  who  love  me  well, 
And  then  at  last  be  dragged  myself  to  hell 
Cursed  of  all  men  ?  nay,  since  all  things  must  die, 
And  I  have  dreamed  not  of  eternity, 
Why  weepest  thou  that  I  must  die  to-day  ? 
Why  weepest  thou  ?  cast  thought  of  shame  away, 
The  dead  are  not  ashamed,  they  feel  no  pain ; 
I  have  heard  folk  who  spoke  of  death  as  gain  — 
And  yet  —  ah  God,  if  I  had  been  some  maid, 
Toiling  all  day,  and  in  the  night-time  laid 
Asleep  on  rushes  —  had  I  only  died 
Before  this  sweet  life  I  had  fully  tried, 
Upon  that  day  when  for  my  birth  men  sung, 
And  o'er  the  feasting  folk  the  sweet  bells  rung  !  " 

And  therewith  she  arose  and  gat  away, 
And  in  her  chamber  mourning  long  she  lay, 
Thinking  of  all  the  days  that  might  have  been, 
And  how  that  she  was  born  to  be  a  queen, 
The  prize  of  some  great  conqueror  of  renown, 
The  joy  of  many  a  country  and  fair  town, 
The  high  desire  of  every  prince  and  lord, 
One  who  could  fright  with  careless  smile  or  word 
The  hearts  of  heroes  fearless  in  the  war, 
The  glory  of  the  world,  the  leading  star 
Unto  all  honor  and  all  earthly  fame  — 
—  Round  goes  the  wheel,  and  death  and  deadly  shame 
Shall  be  her  lot,  while  yet  of  her  men  sing 
Unwitting  that  the  gods  have  done  this  thing. 
Long  time  she  lay  there,  while  the  sunbeams  moved 
Over  her  body  through  the  flowers  she  loved  ; 
And  in  the  eaves  the  sparrows  chirped  outside, 
Until  for  weariness  she  grew  dry-eyed, 
And  into  an  unhappy  sleep  she  fell. 

But  of  the  luckless  King  now  must  we  tell, 
Who  sat  devising  means  to  'scape  that  shame, 
Until  the  frightened  people  thronging  came 
About  the  palace,  and  drove  back  the  guards, 
Making  their  way  past  all  the  gates  and  wards  ; 
And,  putting  chamberlains  and  marshals  by, 
Surged  round  the  very  throne  tumultuously. 


STORY  OF  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE.         227 

Then  knew  the  wretched  King  all  folk  had  heard 
The  miserable  sentence,  and  the  word 
The  gods  had  spoken  ;  and  from  out  his  seat 
He  rose,  and  spoke  in  humble  words,  unmeet 
For  a  great  king,  and  prayed  them  give  him  grace, 
While  'twixt  his  words  the  tears  ran  down  his  face 
On  to  his  raiment  stiff  with  golden  thread. 

But  little  heeded  they  the  words  he  said, 
For  very  fear  had  made  them  pitiless  ; 
Nor  cared  they  for  the  maid  and  her  distress, 
But  clashed  their  spears  together  and  'gan  cry  : 
"  For  one  man's  daughter  shall  the  people  die, 
And  this  fair  land  become  an  empty  name, 
Because  thou  art  afraid  to  meet  the  shame 
Wherewith  the  gods  reward  thy  hidden  sin  ? 
Nay,  by  their  glory  do  us  right  herein  !  " 

"  Ye  are  in  haste  to  have  a  poor  maid  slain," 
The  King  said  ;  "but  my  will  herein  is  vain, 
For  ye  are  many,  I  one  aged  man  : 
Let  one  man  speak,  if  for  his  shame  he  can." 

Then  stepped  a  sturdy  dyer  forth,  who  said,  — 
' '  Fear  of  the  gods  brings  no  shame,  by  my  head. 
Listen  ;  thy  daughter  we  would  have  thee  leave 
Upon  the  fated  mountain  this  same  eve  ; 
And  thither  must  she  go  right  well  arrayed 
In  marriage  raiment,  loose  hair  as  a  maid, 
And  saffron  veil,  and  with  her  shall  there  go 
Fair  maidens  bearing  torches,  two  and  two  ; 
And  minstrels,  in  such  raiment  as  is  meet 
The  god-ordained  fearful  spouse  to  greet. 
So  shalt  thou  save  our  wives  and  little  ones, 
And  something  better  than  a  heap  of  stones, 
Dwelt  in  by  noisome  things,  this  town  shall  be, 
And  thou  thyself  shalt  keep  thy  sovereignty  ; 
But  if  thou  wilt  not  do  the  thing  I  say, 
Then  shalt  thou  live  in  bonds  from  this  same  day, 
And  we  will  bear  thy  maid  unto  the  hill, 
And  from  the  dread  gods  save  the  city  still." 

Then  loud  they  shouted  at  the  words  he  said, 
And  round  the  head  of  the  unhappy  maid, 
Dreaming  uneasily  of  long-past  joys, 
Floated  the  echo  of  that  dreadful  noise, 
And  changed  her  dreams  to  dreams  of  misery. 
But  when  the  King  knew  that  the  thing  must  be, 
And  that  no  help  there  .was  in  this  distress, 
He  bade  them  have  all  things  in  readiness 


228  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

To  take  the  maiden  out  at  sunsetting, 

And  wed  her  to  the  unknown  dreadful  thing. 

So  through  the  palace  passed  with  heavy  cheer 

Her  women  gathering  the  sad  wedding-gear  ; 

Who  lingering  long,  yet  at  the  last  must  go, 

To  waken  Psyche  to  her  bitter  woe. 

So  coming  to  her  bower,  they  found  her  there, 

From  head  to  foot  rolled  in  her  yellow  hair, 

As  in  the  saffron  veil  she  should  be  soon 

Betwixt  the  setting  sun  and  rising  moon  ; 

But  when  above  her  a  pale  maiden  bent 

And  touched  her,  from  her  heart  a  sigh  she  sent, 

And  waking,  on  their  woful  faces  stared, 

Sitting  upright,  with  one  white  shoulder  bared 

By  writhing  on  the  bed  in  wretchedness. 

Then  suddenly  remembering  her  distress, 

She  bowed  her  head  and  'gan  to  weep  and  wail, 

But  let  them  wrap  her  in  the  bridal  veil, 

And  bind  the  sandals  to  her  silver  feet, 

And  set  the  rose-wreath  on  her  tresses  sweet ; 

But  spoke  no  word,  yea,  rather,  wearily 

Turned  from  the  yearning  face  and  pitying  eye 

Of  any  maid  who  seemed  about  to  speak. 

Now  through  the  garden  trees  the  sun  'gan  break, 
And  that  inevitable  time  drew  near  ; 
Then  through  the  courts,  grown  cruel,  strange,  and  drear, 
Since  the  bright  morn,  they  led  her  to  the  gate, 
Where  she  beheld  a  golden  litter  wait. 
Whereby  the  King  stood,  aged  and  bent  to  earth, 
The  flute-players  with  faces  void  of  mirth, 
The  downcast  bearers  of  the  ivory  wands, 
The  maiden  torch-bearers'  unhappy  bands. 

So  then  was  Psyche  taken  to  the  hill, 
And  through  the  town  the  streets  were  void  and  still ; 
For  in  their  houses  all  the  people  stayed, 
Of  that  most  mournful  music  sore  afraid. 
But  on  the  way  a  marvel  did  they  see, 
For,  passing  by,  where  wrought  of  ivory, 
There  stood  the  goddess  of  the  flowery  isle, 
All  folk  could  see  the  carven  image  smile. 

But  when  anigh  the  hill's  bare  top  they  came, 
Where  Psyche  must  be  left  to  meet  her  shame, 
They  set  the  litter  down,  and  drew  aside 
The  golden  curtains  from  the  wretched  bride, 
Who  at  their  bidding  rose  and  with  them  went 


STORY  OF  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE.         229 

Afoot  amidst  her  maids  with  head  down-bent, 

Until  they  came  unto  the  drear  rock's  brow  ; 

And  there  she  stood  apart,  not  weeping  now, 

But  pale  as  privet  blossom  is  in  June. 

There  as  the  quivering  flutes  left  off  their  tune, 

In  trembling  arms  the  weeping,  haggard  King 

Caught  Psyche,  who,  like  some  half  lifeless  thing,' 

Took  all  his  kisses,  and  no  word  could  say, 

Until  at  last  perforce  he  turned  away  ; 

Because  the  longest  agony  has  end, 

And  homeward  through  the  twilight  did  they  wend. 

But  Psyche,  now  faint  and  bewildered, 
Remembered  little  of  her  pain  and  dread  ; 
Her  doom  drawn  nigh  took  all  her  fear  away, 
And  left  her  faint  and  weary  ;  as  they  say 
It  haps  to  one  who  'neath  a  lion  lies, 
Who  stunned  and  helpless  feels  not  ere  he  dies 
The  horror  of  the  yellow  fell,  the  red 
Hot  mouth,  and  white  teeth  gleaming  o'er  his  head  ; 
So  Psyche  felt,  as  sinking  on  the  ground 
She  cast  one  weary  vacant  look  around, 
And  at  the  ending  of  that  wretched  day 
Swooning  beneath  the  risen  moon  she  lay. 


NOW  backward  must  our  story  go  awhile 
And  unto  Cyprus  the  fair  flowery  isle, 
Where  hid  away  from  every  worshipper 
Was  Venus  sitting,  and  her  son  by  her 
Standing  to  mark  what  words  she  had  to  say, 
While  in  his  dreadful  wings  the  wind  did  play : 
Frowning  she  spoke,  in  plucking  from  her  thigh 
The  fragrant  flowers  that  clasped  it  lovingly. 

"  In  such  a  town,  O  son,  a  maid  there  is 
Whom  any  amorous  man  this  day  would  kiss 
As  gladly  as  a  goddess  like  to  me, 
And  though  I  know  an  end  to  this  must  be, 
When  white  and  red  and  gold  are  waxen  gray 
Down  on  the  earth,  while  unto  me  one  day 
Is  as  another ;  yet  behold,  my  son, 
And  go  through  all  my  temples  one  by  one 
And  look  what  incense  rises  unto  me ; 
Hearken  the  talk  of  sailors  from  the  sea 
Just  landed,  ever  will  it  be  the  same, 


230  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

'  Hast  them  then  seen  her  ? '  —  Yea,  unto  my  shame 

Within  the  temple  that  is  called  mine, 

As  through  the  veil  I  watched  the  altar  shine, 

This  happed  ;  a  man  with  outstretched  hand  there  stood, 

Glittering  in  arms,  of  smiling  joyous  mood, 

With  crisp,  black  hair,  and  such  a  face  one  sees 

But  seldom  now,  and  limbs  like  Hercules  ; 

But  as  he  stood  there  in  my  holy  place, 

Across  mine  image  came  the  maiden's  face, 

And  when  he  saw  her,  straight  the  warrior  said 

Turning  about  unto  an  earthly  maid, 

'  O   lady  Venus,  thou  art  kind  to  me 

After  so  much  of  wandering  on  the  sea 

To  show  thy  very  body  to  me  here  ; ' 

But  when  this  impious  saying  I  did  hear, 

I  sent  them  a  great  portent,  for  straightway 

I  quenched  the  fire,  and  no  priest  on  that  day 

Could  light  it  any  more  for  all  his  prayer. 

"  So  must  she  fall,  so  must  her  golden  hair 
Flash  no  more  through  the  city,  or  her  feet 
Be  seen  like  lilies  moving  down  the  street ; 
No  more  must  men  watch  her  soft  raiment  cling 
About  her  limbs,  no  more  must  minstrels  sing 
The  praises  of  her  arms  and  hidden  breast 
And  thou  it  is,  my  son,  must  give  me  rest 
From  all  this  worship  wearisomely  paid 
Unto  a  mortal  who  should  be  afraid 
To  match  the  gods  in  beauty  ;  take  thy  bow 
And  dreadful  arrows,  and  about  her  sow 
The  seeds  of  folly,  and  with  such  an  one 
I  pray  thee  cause  her  mingle,  fair  my  son, 
That  not  the  poorest  peasant  girl  in  Greece 
Would  look  on  for  the  gift  of  Jason's  fleece. 
Do  this,  and  see  thy  mother  glad  again, 
And  free  from  insult,  in  her  temples  reign 
Over  the  hearts  of  lovers  in  the  spring." 

" Mother,"  he  said,  "thou  askest  no  great  thing, 
Some  wretch  too  bad  for  death  I  soon  shall  find, 
Who  round  her  perfect  neck  his  arms  shall  wind. 
She  shall  be  driven  from  the  palace  gate 
Where  once  her  crowd  of  worshippers  would  wait 
From  earliest  morning  till  the  dew  was  dry 
On  chance  of  seeing  her  gold  gown  glancing  by  ; 
There  through  the  storm  of  curses  shall  she  go 
In  evil  raiment  midst  the  winter  snow, 


STORY  OF  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE.          231 

Or  in  the  summer  in  rough  sheepskins  clad. 
And  thus,  O  mother,  shall  I  make  thee  glad 
Remembering  all  the  honor  thou  hast  brought 
Unto  mine  altars  ;  since  as  thine  own  thought 
My  thought  is  grown,  my  mind  as  thy  dear  mind. " 

Then  straight  he  rose  from  earth  and  down  the  wind 
Went  glittering  'twixt  the  blue  sky  and  the  sea, 
And  so  unto  the  place  came  presently 
Where  Psyche  dwelt,  and  through  the  gardens  fair 
Passed  seeking  her,  and,  as  he  wandered  there, 
Had  still  no  thought  but  to  do  all  her  will, 
Nor  cared  to  think  if  it  were  good  or  ill : 
So  beautiful  and  pitiless  he  went, 
And  toward  him  still  the  blossomed  fruit-trees  leant, 
And  after  him  the  wind  crept  murmuring, 
And  on  the  boughs  the  birds  forgot  to  sing. 

Withal  at  last  amidst  a  fair  green  close, 
Hedged  round  about  with  woodbine  and  red  rose, 
Within  the  flicker  of  a  white-thorn  shade 
In  gentle  sleep  he  found  the  maiden  laid  ; 
One  hand  that  held  a  book  had  fallen  away 
Across  her  body,  and  the  other  lay 
Upon  a  marble  fountain's  plashing  rim, 
Among  whose  broken  waves  the  fish  showed  dim, 
But  yet  its  wide-flung  spray  now  woke  her  not, 
Because  the  summer  day  at  noon  was  hot, 
And  all  sweet  sounds  and  scents  were  lulling  her. 

So  soon  the  rustle  of  his  wings  'gan  stir 
Her  looser  folds  of  raiment,  and  the  hair 
Spread  wide  upon  the  grass  and  daisies  fair, 
As  Love  cast  down  his  eyes  with  a  half-smile 
Godlike  and  cruel ;  that  faded  in  a  while, 
And  long  he  stood  above  her  hidden  eyes 
With  red  lips  parted  in  a  god's  surprise. 

Then  very  Love  knelt  down  beside  the  maid 
And  on  her  breast  a  hand  unfelt  he  laid, 
And  drew  the  gown  from  off  her  little  feet, 
And  set  his  fair  cheek  to  her  shoulder  sweet, 
And  kissed  her  lips  that  knew  of  no  love  yet, 
And  wondered  if  his  heart  would  e'er  forget 
The  perfect  arm  that  o'er  her  body  lay. 

But  now  by  chance  a  damsel  came  that  way, 
One  of  her  ladies,  and  saw  not  the  god, 


232 


THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 


Yet  on  his  shafts  cast  down  had  wellnigh  trod 
In  wakening  Psyche,  who  rose  up  in  haste 
And  girded  up  her  gown  about  her  waist, 
And  with  that  maid  went  drowsily  away. 

From  place  to  place  Love  followed  her  that  day 
And  ever  fairer  to  his  eyes  she  grew, 
So  that  at  last  when  from  her  bower  he  flew, 
And  underneath  his  feet  the  moonlit  sea 
Went  shepherding  his  waves  disorderly, 
He  swore  that  of  all  gods  and  men,  no  one 
Should  hold  her  in  his  arms  but  he  alone  ; 
That  she  should  dwell  with  him  in  glorious  wise 
Like  to  a  goddess  in  some  paradise  ; 
Yea,  he  would  get  from  Father  Jove  this  grace 
That  she  should  never  die,  but  her  sweet  face 
And  wonderful  fair  body  should  endure 
Till  the  foundations  of  the  mountains  sure 
Were  molten  in  the  sea  ;  so  utterly 
Did  he  forget  his  mother's  cruelty. 

And  now  that  he  might  come  to  this  fair  end, 
He  found  Apollo,  and  besought  him  lend 
His  throne  of  divination  for  a  while, 
Whereby  he  did  the  priestess  so  beguile, 
She  gave  the  cruel  answer  ye  have  heard 
Unto  those  lords,  who  wrote  it  word  by  word, 
And  back  unto  the  King  its  threatenings  bore, 
Whereof  there  came  that  grief  and  mourning  sore, 
Of  which  ye  wot ;  thereby  is  Psyche  laid 
Upon  the  mountain-top  ;  thereby,  afraid 
Of  some  ill  yet,  within  the  city  fair 
Cower  down  the  people  that  have  sent  her  there. 

Withal  did  Love  call  unto  him  the  Wind 
Called  Zephyrus,  who  most  was  to  his  mind, 
And  said,  "O  rainy  wooer  of  the  spring, 
I  pray  thee,  do  for  me  an  easy  thing  ; 
To  such  a  hilltop  go,  O  gentle  wind, 
And  there  a  sleeping  maiden  shalt  thou  find ; 
Her  perfect  body  in  thy  arms  with  care 
Take  up,  and  unto  the  green  valley  bear 
That  lies  before  my  noble  house  of  gold  ; 
There  leave  her  lying  on  the  daisies  cold. " 

Then,  smiling,  toward  the  place  the  fair  Wind  went, 
While  'neath  his  wing  the  sleeping  lilies  bent, 


STORY  OF  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE.         233 

And  flying  'twixt  the  green  earth  and  the  sea 
Made  the  huge  anchored  ships  dance  merrily, 
And  swung  round  from  the  east  the  gilded  vanes 
On  many  a  palace,  and  from  unhorsed  wains 
Twitched  off  the  wheat-straw  in  his  hurried  flight ; 
But  ere  much  time  had  passed  he  came  in  sight 
Of  Psyche  laid  in  swoon  upon  the  hill, 
And,  smiling,  set  himself  to  do  Love's  will ; 
For  in  his  arms  he  took  her  up  with  care, 
Wondering  to  see  a  mortal  made  so  fair, 
And  came  into  the  vale  in  little  space, 
And  set  her  down  in  the  most  flowery  place  ; 
And  then  unto  the  plains  of  Thessaly 
Went  ruffling  up  the  edges  of  the  sea. 

Now  underneath  the  world  the  moon  was  gone, 
But  brighter  shone  the  stars  so  left  alone, 
Until  a  faint  green  light  began  to  show 
Far  in  the  east,  whereby  did  all  men  know, 
Who  lay  awake  either  with  joy  or  pain, 
That  day  was  coming  on  their  heads  again  ; 
Then,  widening,  soon  it  spread  to  gray  twilight, 
And  in  a  while  with  gold  the  east  was  bright ; 
The  birds  burst  out  a  singing  one  by  one, 
And  o'er  the  hill-top  rose  the  mighty  sun. 

Therewith  did  Psyche  open  wide  her  eyes, 
And  rising  on  her  arm,  with  great  surprise 
Gazed  on  the  flowers  wherein  so  deep  she  lay, 
And  wondered  why  upon  that  dawn  of  day 
Out  in  the  fields  she  had  lift  up  her  head 
Rather  than  in  her  balmy  gold -hung  bed. 
Then,  suddenly  remembering  all  her  woes, 
She  sprang  upon  her  feet,  and  yet  arose 
Within  her  heart  a  mingled  hope  and  dread 
Of  some  new  thing  :  and  now  she  raised  her  head, 
And  gazing  round  about  her  timidly, 
A  lovely  grassy  valley  could  she  see, 
That  steep  gray  cliffs  upon  three  sides  did  bound, 
And  under  these,  a  river  sweeping  round, 
With  gleaming  curves  the  valley  did  embrace, 
And  seemed  to  make  an  island  of  that  place ; 
And  all  about  were  dotted  leafy  trees, 
The  elm  for  shade,  the  linden  for  the  bees, 
The  noble  oak,  long  ready  for  the  steel 
That  in  that  place  it  had  no  fear  to  feel ; 
The  pomegranate,  the  apple,  and  the  pear, 


234  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

That  fruit  and  flowers  at  once  made  shift  to  bear, 
Nor  yet  decayed  therefore,  and  in  them  hung 
Bright  birds  that  elsewhere  sing  not,  but  here  sung 
As  sweetly  as  the  small  brown  nightingales 
Within  the  wooded,  deep  Laconian  vales. 

But  right  across  the  vale,  from  side  to  side, 
A  high  white  wall  all  further  view  did  hide, 
But  that  above  it,  vane  and  pinnacle 
Rose  up,  of  some  great  house  beyond  to  tell, 
And  still  betwixt  these,  mountains  far  away 
Against  the  sky  rose  shadowy,  cold,  and  gray. 

She,  standing  in  the  yellow  morning  sun, 
Could  scarcely  think  her  happy  life  was  done, 
Or  that  the  place  was  made  for  misery  ; 
Yea,  some  lone  heaven  it  rather  seemed  to  be, 
Which  for  the  coming  band  of  gods  did  wait ; 
Hope  touched  her  heart ;  no  longer  desolate, 
Deserted  of  all  creatures  did  she  feel, 
And  o'er  her  face  sweet  color  'gan  to  steal, 
That  deepened  to  a  flush,  as  wandering  thought 
Desires  before  unknown  unto  her  brought, 
So  mighty  was  the  god,  though  far  away. 

But  trembling  midst  her  hope,  she  took  her  way 
Unto  a  little  door  midmost  the  wall, 
And  still  on  odorous  flowers  her  feet  did  fall, 
And  round  about  her  did  the  strange  birds  sing, 
Praising  her  beauty  in  their  carolling. 
Thus  coming  to  the  door,  when  now  her  hand 
First  touched  the  lock,  in  doubt  she  needs  must  stand, 
And  to  herself  she  said,  "  Lo,  now  the  trap  ! 
And  yet,  alas !  whatever  now  may  hap, 
How  can  I  'scape  the  ill  which  waiteth  me  ? 
Let  me  die  now ! "  and  herewith,  tremblingly, 
She  raised  the  latch,  and  her  sweet  sinless  eyes 
Beheld  a  garden  like  a  Paradise, 
Void  of  mankind,  fairer  than  words  can  say, 
Wherein  did  joyous  harmless  creatures  play 
After  their  kind,  and  all  amidst  the  trees 
Were  strange-wrought  founts  and  wondrous  images  ; 
And  glimmering  'twixt  the  boughs  could  she  behold 
A  house  made  beautiful  with  beaten  gold, 
Whose  open  doors  in  the  bright  sun  did  gleam  ; 
Lonely,  but  not  deserted  did  it  seem. 

Long  time  she  stood  debating  what  to  do, 
But  at  the  last  she  passed  the  wicket  through, 


STORY  OF  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE.          235 

Which,  shutting  clamorously  behind  her,  sent 

A  pang  of  fear  throughout  her  as  she  went ; 

But  when  through  all  that  green  place  she  had  passed, 

And  by  the  palace  porch  she  stood  at  last, 

And  saw  how  wonderfully  the  wall  was  wrought, 

With  curious  stones  from  far-off  countries  brought, 

And  many  an  image  and  fair  history 

Of  what  the  world  has  been,  and  yet  shall  be, 

And  all  set  round  with  golden  craftsmanship, 

Well  wrought  as  some  renowned  cup's  royal  lip, 

She  had  a  thought  again  to  turn  aside  : 

And  yet  again,  not  knowing  where  to  bide, 

She  entered  softly,  and  with  trembling  hands 

Holding  her  gown  ;  the  wonder  of  all  lands 

Met  there  the  wonders  of  the  land  and  sea. 

Now  went  she  through  the  chambers  tremblingly, 
And  oft  in  going  would  she  pause  and  stand, 
And  drop  the  gathered  raiment  from  her  hand, 
Stilling  the  beating  of  her  heart  for  fear 
As  voices  whispering  low  she  seemed  to  hear, 
But  then  again  the  wind  it  seemed  to  be 
Moving  the  golden  hangings  doubtfully, 
Or  some  bewildered  swallow  passing  close 
Unto  the  pane,  or  some  wind-beaten  rose. 

Soon  seeing  that  no  evil  thing  came  near, 
A  little  she  began  to  lose  her  fear, 
And  gaze  upon  the  wonders  of  the  place, 
And  in  the  silver  mirrors  saw  her  face 
Grown  strange  to  her  amidst  that  loneliness, 
And  stooped  to  feel  the  web  her  feet  did  press, 
Wrought  by  the  brown  slim-fingered  Indian's  toil 
Amidst  the  years  of  war  and  vain  turmoil ; 
Or  she  the  figures  of  the  hangings  felt, 
Or  daintily  the  unknown  blossoms  smelt, 
Or  stood  and  pondered  what  new  thing  might  mean 
The  images  of  knight  and  king  and  queen 
W  herewith  the  walls  were  pictured  here  and  there, 
Or  touched  rich  vessels  with  her  fingers  fair, 
And  o'er  her  delicate  smooth  cheek  would  pass 
The  fixed  bubbles  of  strange  works  of  glass  : 
So  wandered  she  amidst  these  marvels  new 
Until  anigh  the  noontide  now  it  grew. 

At  last  she  came  unto  a  chamber  cool 
Paved  cunningly  in  manner  of  a  pool, 
Where  red  fish  seemed  to  swim  through  floating  weed 


236  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And  at  the  first  she  thought  it  so  indeed,    • 
And  took  the  sandals  quickly  from  her  feet, 
But  when  the  glassy  floor  these  did  but  meet 
The  shadow  of  a  long-forgotten  smile 
Her  anxious  face  a  moment  did  beguile  ; 
And  crossing  o'er,  she  found  a  table  spread 
With  dainty  food,  as  delicate  white  bread 
And  fruits  piled  up  and  covered  savory  meat, 
As  though  a  king  were  coming  there  to  eat, 
For  the  worst  vessel  was  of  beaten  gold. 

Now  when  these  dainties  Psyche  did  behold 
She  fain  had  eaten,  but  did  nowise  dare, 
Thinking  she  saw  a  god's  feast  lying  there. 
But  as  she  turned  to  go  the  way  she  came 
She  heard  a  low  soft  voice  call  out  her  name. 
Then  she  stood  still,  and  trembling  gazed  around, 
And  seeing  no  man,  nigh  sank  upon  the  ground, 
Then  through  the  empty  air  she  heard  the  voice, 

"  O  lovely  one,  fear  not !  rather  rejoice 
That  thou  art  come  unto  thy  sovereignty  : 
Sit  now  and  eat,  this  feast  is  but  for  thee, 
Yea,  do  whatso  thou  wilt  with  all  things  here, 
And  in  thine  own  house  cast  away  thy  fear, 
For  all  is  thine,  and  little  things  are  these 
So  loved  a  heart  as  thine  awhile  to  please. 

"  Be  patient !  thou  art  loved  by  such  a  one 
As  will  not  leave  thee  mourning  here  alone, 
But  rather  cometh  on  this  very  night ; 
And  though  he  needs  must  hide  him  from  thy  sight 
Yet  all  his  words  of  love  thou  well  mayst  hear, 
And  pour  thy  woes  into  no  careless  ear. 

"  Bethink  thee  then,  with  what  solemnity 
Thy  folk,  thy  father,  did  deliver  thee 
To  him  who  loves  thee  thus,  and  void  of  dread 
Remember,  sweet,  thou  art  a  bride  new-wed." 

Now  hearing  this,  did  Psyche,  trembling  sore 
And  yet  with  lighter  heart  than  heretofore, 
Sit  down  and  eat,  till  she  grew  scarce  afeard  ; 
And  nothing  but  the  summer  noise  she  heard 
Within  the  garden,  then,  her  meal  being  done, 
Within  the  window-seat  she  watched  the  sun 
Changing  the  garden  shadows,  till  she  grew 
Fearless  and  happy,  since  she  deemed  she  knew 
The  worst  that  could  befall,  while  still  the  best 


STORY  OF  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE.         237 

Shone  a  fair  star  far  off:  and,  'mid  the  rest 
This  brought  her  after  all  her  grief  and  fear, 
She  said,  "  How  sweet  it  would  be,  could  I  hear 
Soft  music  mate  the  drowsy  afternoon, 
And  drown  awhile  the  bees'  sad  murmuring  tune 
Within  these  flowering  limes."     E'en  as  she  spoke, 
A  sweet-voiced  choir  of  unknown,  unseen  folk, 
Singing  to  words  that  match  the  sense  of  these, 
Hushed  the  faint  music  of  the  linden  trees. 


SONG. 

O  PENSIVE,  tender  maid,  downcast  and  shy, 
Who  turnest  pale  e'en  at  the  name  of  love, 
And  with  flushed  face  must  pass  the  elm-tree  by 
Ashamed  to  hear  the  passionate  gray  dove 
Moan  to  his  mate,  thee  too  the  god  shall  move, 
Thee  too  the  maidens  shall  ungird  one  day, 
And  with  thy  girdle  put  thy  shame  away. 

What  then,  and  shall  white  winter  ne'er  be  done 
Because  the  glittering  frosty  morn  is  fair  ? 
Because  against  the  early-setting  sun 
Bright  show  the  gilded  boughs  though  waste  and  bare  ? 
Because  the  robin  singeth  free  from  care  ? 
Ah !  these  are  memories  of  a  better  day 
When  on  earth's  face  the  lips  of  summer  lay. 

Come  then,  beloved  one,  for  such  as  thee 
Love  loveth,  and  their  hearts  he  knoweth  well, 
Who  hoard  their  moments  of  felicity, 
As  misers  hoard  the  medals  that  they  tell, 
Lest  on  the  earth  but  paupers  they  should  dwell : 
"  We  hide  our  love  to  bless  another  day  ; 
The  world  is  hard,  youth  passes  quick,"  they  say. 

Ah,  little  ones,  but  if  ye  could  forget 
Amidst  your  outpoured  love  that  you  must  die, 
Then  ye,  my  servants,  were  death's  conquerors  yet, 
And  love  to  you  should  be  eternity 
How  quick  soever  might  the  days  go  by  : 
Yes,  ye  are  made  immortal  on  the  day 
Ye  cease  the  dusty  grains  of  time  to  weigh. 


238  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Thou  hearkenest,  love  ?     O,  make  no  semblance  then, 
Thou  art  beloved,  but,  as  thy  wont  is, 
Turn  thy  gray  eyes  away  from  eyes  of  men, 
With  hands  down-dropped,  that  tremble  with  thy  bliss, 
With  hidden  eyes,  take  thy  first  lover's  kiss  ; 
Call  this  eternity  which  is  to-day, 
Nor  dream  that  this  our  love  can  pass  away. 

They  ceased,  and  Psyche  pondering  o'er  their  song, 
Not  fearing  now  that  aught  would  do  her  wrong, 
About  the  chambers  wandered  at  her  will, 
And  on  the  many  marvels  gazed  her  fill, 
Where'er  she  passed  still  noting  everything, 
Then  in  the  gardens  heard  the  new  birds  sing, 
And  watched  the  red  fish  in  the  fountains  play,- 
And  at  the  very  faintest  time  of  day 
Upon  the  grass  lay  sleeping  for  a  while 
Midst  heaven-sent  dreams  of  bliss  that  made  her  smile  ; 
And,  when  she  woke,  the  shades  were  lengthening, 
So  to  the  place  where  she  had  heard  them  sing 
She  came  again,  and  through  a  little  door 
Entered  a  chamber  with  a  marble  floor, 
Open  atop  unto  the  outer  air, 
Beneath  which  lay  a  bath  of  water  fair, 
Paved  with  strange  stones  and  figures  of  bright  gold, 
And  from  the  steps  thereof  could  she  behold 
The  slim-leaved  trees  against  the  evening  sky 
Golden  and  calm,  still  moving  languidly. 

So  for  a  time  upon  the  brink  she  sat, 
Debating  in  her  mind  of  this  and  that, 
And  then  arose  and  slowly  from  her  cast 
Her  raiment,  and  adown  the  steps  she  passed 
Into  the  water,  and  therein  she  played, 
Till  of  herself  at  last  she  grew  afraid, 
And  of  the  broken  image  of  her  face, 
And  the  loud  splashing  in  that  lonely  place. 
So  from  the  bath  she  gat  her  quietly, 
And  clad  herself  in  whatso  haste  might  be  ; 
And  when  at  last  she  was  apparelled 
Unto  a  chamber  came,  where  was  a  bed 
Of  gold  and  ivory,  and  precious  wood 
Some  island  bears  where  never  man  has  stood ; 
And  round  about  hung  curtains  of  delight, 
Wherein  were  interwoven  Day  and  Night 
Joined  by  the  hands  of  Love,  and  round  their  wings 
Knots  of  fair  flowers  no  earthly  May-time  brings. 


STORY  OF  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE.          239 

Strange  for  its  beauty  was  the  coverlet, 

With  birds  and  beasts  and  flowers  wrought  over  it ; 

And  every  cloth  was  made  in  daintier  wise 

Than  any  man  on  earth  could  well  devise  : 

Yea,  there  such  beauty  was  in  everything, 

That  she,  the  daughter  of  a  mighty  king, 

Felt  strange  therein,  and  trembled  lest  that  she, 

Deceived  by  dreams,  had  wandered  heedlessly 

Into  a  bower  for  some  fair  goddess  made. 

Yet  if  perchance  some  man  had  thither  strayed, 

It  had  been  long  ere  he  had  noted  aught 

But  her  sweet  face,  made  pensive  by  the  thought 

Of  all  the  wonders  that  she  moved  in  there. 

But,  looking  round,  upon  a  table  fair 
She  saw  a  book  wherein  old  tales  were  writ, 
And  by  the  window  sat,  to  read  in  it 
Until  the  dusk  had  melted  into  night, 
When  waxen  tapers  did  her  servants  light 
With  unseen  hands,  until  it  grew  like  day. 

And  so  at  last  upon  the  bed  she  lay, 
And  slept  a  dreamless  sleep  for  weariness, 
Forgetting  all  the  wonder  and  distress. 

But  at  the  dead  of  night  she  woke,  and  heard 
A  rustling  noise,  and  grew  right  sore  afeard, 
Yea,  could  not  move  a  finger  for  afright ; 
And  all  was  darker  now  than  darkest  night. 

Withal  a  voice  close  by  her  did  she  hear. 
"Alas,  my  love  !  why  tremblest  thou  with  fear, 
While  I  am  trembling  with  new  happiness  ? 
Forgive  me,  sweet,  thy  terror  and  distress  : 
Not  otherwise  could  this  our  meeting  be. 
O  loveliest !  such  bliss  awaiteth  thee 
For  all  thy  trouble  and  thy  shameful  tears, 
Such  nameless  honor,  and  such  happy  years, 
As  fall  not  unto  women  of  the  earth. 
Loved  as  thou  art,  thy  short-lived  pains  are  worth 
The  glory  and  the  joy  unspeakable 
Wherein  the  Treasure  of  the  World  shall  dwell : 
A  little  hope,  a  little  patience  yet, 
Ere  everything  thou  wilt,  thou  may'st  forget, 
Or  else  remember  as  a  well-told  tale, 
That  for  some  pensive  pleasure  may  av.ail. 
Canst  thou  not  love  me,  then,  who  wrought  thy  woe, 
That  thou  the  height  and  depth  of  joy  mightst  know?" 


240  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

He  spoke,  and  as  upon  the  bed  she  lay, 
Trembling  amidst  new  thoughts,  he  sent  a  ray 
Of  finest  love  unto  her  inmost  heart, 
Till,  murmuring  low,  she  strove  the  night  to  part, 
And  like  a  bride  who  meets  her  love  at  last, 
When  the  long  days  of  yearning  are  o'erpast, 
She  reached  to  him  her  perfect  arms  unseen, 
And  said,  "O  Love,  how  wretched  I  have  been  ! 
What  hast  thou  done  ?  "     And  by  her  side  he  lay, 
Till  just  before  the  dawning  of  the  day. 


sun  was  high  when  Psyche  woke  again, 
_       And  turning  to  the  place  where  he  had  lain 
And  seeing  no  one,  doubted  of  the  thing 
That  she  had  dreamed  it,  till  a  fair  gold  ring, 
Unseen  before,  upon  her  hand  she  found, 
And  touching  her  bright  head  she  felt  it  crowned 
With  a  bright  circlet ;  then  withal  she  sighed, 
And  wondered  how  the  oracle  had  lied, 
And  wished  her  father  knew  it,  and  straightway 
Rose  up  and  clad  herself.     Slow  went  the  day, 
Though  helped  with  many  a  solace,  till  came  night ; 
And  therewithal  the  new,  unseen  delight, 
She  learned  to  call  her  Love. 

So  passed  away 

The  days  and  nights,  until  upon  a  day, 
As  in  the  shade  at  noon  she  lay  asleep, 
She  dreamed  that  she  beheld  her  sisters  weep, 
And  her  old  father  clad  in  sorry  guise, 
Grown  foolish  with  the  weight  of  miseries, 
Her  friends  black-clad  and  moving  mournfully, 
And  folk  in  wonder  landed  from  the  sea, 
At  such  a  fall  of  such  a  matchless  maid, 
And  in  some  press  apart  her  raiment  laid 
Like  precious  relics,  and  an  empty  tomb 
Set  in  the  palace  telling  of  her  doom. 

Therefore  she  wept  in  sleep,  and  woke  with  tears 
Still  on  her  face,  and  wet  hair  round  her  ears, 
And  went  about  unhappily  that  day, 
Framing  a  gentle  speech  wherewith  to  pray 
For  leave  to  see  her  sisters  once  again, 
That  they  might  know  her  happy,  and  her  pain 
Turned  all  to  joy,  and  honor  come  from  shame. 


STORY  OF  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE.         241 

And  so  at  last  night  and  her  lover  came, 
And  midst  their  fondling,  suddenly  she  said, 
"  O  Love,  a  little  time  we  have  been  wed, 
And  yet  I  ask  a  boon  of  thee  this  night. " 

"  Psyche,"  he  said,  "  if  my  heart  tells  me  right, 
This  thy  desire  may  bring  us  bitter  woe, 
For  who  the  shifting  chance  of  fate  can  know  ? 
Yet,  forasmuch  as  mortal  hearts  are  weak, 
To-morrow  shall  my  folk  thy  sisters  seek, 
And  bear  them  hither  ;  but  before  the  day 
Is  fully  ended  must  they  go  away. 
And  thou  —  beware  —  for,  fresh  and  good  and  true, 
Thou  knowest  not  what  worldly  hearts  may  do, 
Or  what  a  curse  gold  is  unto  the  earth. 
Beware  lest  from  thy  full  heart,  in  thy  mirth, 
Thou  tell'st  the  story  of  thy  love  unseen  : 
Thy  loving,  simple  heart,  fits  not  a  queen." 

Then  by  her  kisses  did  she  know  he  frowned, 
But  close  about  him  her  fair  arms  she  wound, 
Until  for  happiness  he  'gan  to  smile, 
And  in  those  arms  forgat  all  else  awhile. 

So  the  next  day,  for  joy  that  they  should  come, 
Would  Psyche  further  deck  her  strange  new  home, 
And  even  as  she  'gan  to  think  the  thought, 
Quickly  her  will  by  unseen  hands  was  wrought, 
Who  came  and  went  like  thoughts.     Yea,  how  should  I 
Tell  of  the  works  of  gold  and  ivory, 
The  gems  and  images,  those  hands  brought  there  ; 
The  prisoned  things  of  earth,  and  sea,  and  air, 
They  brought  to  please  their  mistress  ?     Many  a  beast, 
Such  as  King  Bacchus  in  his  reckless  feast 
Makes  merry  with,  —  huge  elephants,  snow-white 
With  gilded  tusks,  or  dusky -gray  with  bright 
And  shining  chains  about  their  wrinkled  necks  ; 
The  mailed  rhinoceros,  that  of  nothing  recks  ; 
Dusky-maned  lions  ;  spotted  leopards  fair 
That  through  the  cane-brake  move,  unseen  as  air  ; 
The  deep-mouthed  tiger,  dread  of  the  brown  man  ; 
The  eagle,  and  the  peacock,  and  the  swan,  — 
These  be  the  nobles  of  the  birds  and  beasts. 
But  therewithal,  for  laughter  at  their  feasts, 
They  brought  them  the  gods'  jesters,  such  as  be 
Quick-chattering  apes,  that  yet  in  mockery 
Of  anxious  men  wrinkle  their  ugly  brows  ; 
Strange  birds  with  pouches,  birds  with  beaks  like  prows 
16 


242  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Of  merchant-ships,  with  tufted  crests  like  threads, 

With  unimaginable  monstrous  heads. 

Lo,  such  as  these,  in  many  a  gilded  cage 

They  brought,  or  chained  for  fear  of  sudden  rage. 

Then  strewed  they  scented  branches  on  the  floor, 
And  hung  rose-garlands  up  by  the  great  door, 
And  wafted  incense  through  the  bowers  and  halls, 
And  hung  up  fairer  hangings  on  the  walls, 
And  filled  the  baths  with  water  fresh  and  clear, 
And  in  the  chambers  laid  apparel  fair, 
And  spread  a  table  for  a  royal  feast 

Then,  when  from  all  these  labors  they  had  ceased, 
Psyche  they  sung  to  sleep  with  lullabies ;     ' 
Who  slept  not  long,  but  opening  soon  her  eyes, 
Beheld  her  sisters  on  the  threshold  stand  : 
Then  did  she  run  to  take  them  by  the  hand, 
And  laid  her  cheek  to  theirs,  and  murmured  words 
Of  little  meaning,  like  the  moan  of  birds, 
While  they  bewildered  stood  and  gazed  around, 
Like  people  who  in  some  strange  land  have  found 
One  that  they  thought  not  of ;  but  she  at  last 
Stood  back,  and  from  her  face  the  strayed  locks  cast, 
And,  smiling  through  her  tears,  said,  "Ah,  that  ye 
Should  have  to  weep  such  useless  tears  for  me  ! 
Alas,  the  burden  that  the  city  bears 
For  naught !  O  me,  my  father's  burning  tears, 
That  into  all  this  honor  I  am  come  ! 
Nay,  does  he  live  yet  ?     Is  the  ancient  home 
Still  standing  ?  do  the  galleys  throng  the  quays  ? 
Do  the  brown  Indians  glitter  down  the  ways 
With  rubies  as  of  old  ?     Yes,  yes,  ye  smile, 
For  ye  are  thinking,  but  a  little  while 
Apart  from  these  has  she  been  dwelling  here  ; 
Truly,  yet  long  enough,  loved  ones  and  dear, 
To  make  me  other  than  I  was  of  old, 
Though  now  when  your  dear  faces  I  behold 
Am  I  myself  again.     But  by  what  road 
Have  ye  been  brought  to  this  my  new  abode  ?  " 

"  Sister,"  said  one,  "  I  rose  up  from  my  bed 
It  seems  this  morn,  and  being  apparelled, 
And  walking  in  my  garden,  in  a  swoon 
Helpless  and  unattended  I  sank  down, 
Wherefrom  I  scarce  am  waked,  for  as  a  dream 
Dost  thou  with  all  this  royal  glory  seem, 
But  for  thy  kisses  and  thy  words,  O  love." 

"  Yea,  Psyche,"  said  the  other,  "as  I  drove 


STORY  OF  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE.         243 

The  ivory  shuttle  through  the  shuttle-race, 
All  was  changed  suddenly,  and  in  this  place 
I  found  myself,  and  standing  on  my  feet, 
Where  me  with  sleepy  words  this  one  did  greet 
Now,  sister,  tell  us  whence  these  wonders  come 
With  all  the  godlike  splendor  of  your  home."  • 

"  Sisters,"  she  said,  "  more  marvels  shall  ye  see 
When  ye  have  been  a  little  while  with  me, 
Whereof  I  cannot  tell  you  more  than  this 
That  'midst  them  all  I  dwell  in  ease  and  bliss, 
Well-loved  and  wedded  to  a  mighty  lord, 
Fair  beyond  measure,  from  whose  loving  word 
I  know  that  happier  days  await  me  yet. 
But  come,  my  sisters,  let  us  now  forget 
To  seek  for  empty  knowledge  ;  ye  shall  take 
Some  little  gifts  for  your  lost  sister's  sake ; 
And  whatso  wonders  ye  may  see  or  hear 
Of  nothing  frightful  have  ye  any  fear." 

Wondering  they  went  with  her,  and  looking  round, 
Each  in  the  other's  eyes  a  strange  look  found, 
For  these,  her  mother's  daughters,  had  no  part 
In  her  divine  fresh  singleness  of  heart, 
But  longing  to  be  great,  remembered  not 
How  short  a  time  one  heart  on  earth  has  got. 

But  keener  still  that  guarded  look  now  grew 
As  more  of  that  strange  lovely  place  they  knew, 
And  as  with  growing  hate,  but  still  afeard, 
The  unseen  choirs'  heart-softening  strains  they  heard, 
Which  did  but  harden  these  ;  and  when  at  noon 
They  sought  the  shaded  waters'  freshening  boon, 
And  all  unhidden  once  again  they  saw 
That  peerless  beauty  free  from  any  flaw, 
Which  now  at  last  had  won  its  precious  meed, 
Her  kindness  then  but  fed  the  fire  of  greed 
Within  their  hearts,  — her  gifts,  the  rich  attire 
Wherewith  she  clad  them,  where  like  sparks  of  fire 
The  many-colored  gems  shone  midst  the  pearls, 
The  soft  silks'  winding  lines,  the  work  of  girls 
By  the  Five  Rivers  ;  their  fair  marvellous  crowns, 
Their  sandals'  fastenings  worth  the  rent  of  towns, 
Zones  and  carved  rings,  and  nameless  wonders  fair, 
All  things  her  faithful  slaves  had  brought  them  there, 
Given  amid  kisses,  made  them  not  more  glad  ; 
Since  in  their  hearts  the  ravening  worm  they  had 
That  love  slays  not,  nor  yet  is  satisfied 


244  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

While  aught  but  he  has  aught ;  yet  still  they  tried 
To  look  as  they  deemed  loving  folk  should  look, 
And  still  with  words  of  love  her  bounty  took. 

So  at  the  last  all  being  apparelled, 
Her  sisters  to  the  banquet  Psyche  led, 
Fair  were  they,  and  each  seemed  a  glorious  queen 
With  all  that  wondrous  daintiness  beseen, 
But  Psyche  clad  in  gown  of  dusky  blue 
Little  adorned,  with  deep  gray  eyes  that  knew 
The  hidden  marvels  of  Love's  holy  fire, 
Seemed  like  the  soul  of  innocent  desire, 
Shut  from  the  mocking  world,  wherefrom  those  twain 
Seemed  come  to  lure  her  thence  with  labor  vain. 

Now  having  reached  the  place  where  they  should  eat, 
Ere  'neath  the  canopy  the  three  took  seat, 
The  eldest  sister  unto  Psyche  said, 
"  And  he,  dear  love,  the  man  that  thou  hast  wed, 
Will  he  not  wish  to-day  thy  kin  to  see  ? 
Then  could  we  tell  of  thy  felicity 
The  better,  to  our  folk  and  father  dear. " 

Then  Psyche  reddened,  "  Nay,  he  is  not  here," 
She  stammered,  "neither  will  be  here  to-day, 
For  mighty  matters  keep  him  far  away." 
"  Alas  ! "  the  younger  sister  said,  "  Say  then, 
What  is  the  likeness  of  this  first  of  men  ; 
What  sayest  thou  about  his  loving  eyne, 
Are  his  locks  black,  or  golden-red  as  thine  ?  " 
"  Black-haired  like  me,"  said  Psyche  stammering 
And  looking  round,  "what  say  I  ?  like  the  King 
Who  rules  the  world,  he  seems  to  me  at  least  — 
Come,  sisters,  sit,  and  let  us  make  good  feast ! 
My  darling  and  my  love  ye  shall  behold 
I  doubt  not  soon,  his  crispy  hair  of  gold, 
His  eyes  unseen  ;  and  ye  shall  hear  his  voice, 
That  in  my  joy  ye  also  may  rejoice." 

Then  did  they  hold  their  peace,  although  indeed 
Her  stammering  haste  they  did  not  fail  to  heed. 
But  at  their  wondrous  royal  feast  they  sat 
Thinking  their  thoughts,  and  spoke  of  this  or  that 
Between  the  bursts  of  music,  until  when 
The  sun  was  leaving  the  abodes  of  men  ; 
And  then  must  Psyche  to  her  sisters  say 
That  she  was  bid,  her  husband  being  away, 


STORY  OF  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE.         245 

To  suffer  none  at  night  to  harbor  there, 

No,  not  the  mother  that  her  body  bare 

Or  father  that  begat  her,  therefore  they 

Must  leave  her  now,  till  some  still  happier  day. 

And  therewithal  more  precious  gifts  she  brought 

Whereof  not  e'en  in  dreams  they  could  have  thought, 

Things  whereof  noble  stories  might  be  told  ; 

And  said  :  ' '  These  matters  that  you  here  behold 

Shall  be  the  worst  of  gifts  that  you  shall  have ; 

Farewell,  farewell !  and  may  the  high  gods  save 

Your  lives  and  fame ;  and  tell  our  father  dear 

Of  all  the  honor  that  I  live  in  here, 

And  how  that  greater  happiness  shall  come 

When  I  shall  reach  a  long-enduring  home." 

Then  these,  though  burning  through  the  night  to  stay. 
Spake  loving  words,  and  went  upon  their  way, 
When  weeping  she  had  kissed  them  ;  but  they  wept 
Such  tears  as  traitors  do,  for,  as  they  stepped 
Over  the  threshold,  in  each  other's  eyes 
They  looked,  for  each  was  eager  to  surprise 
The  envy  that  their  hearts  were  filled  withal, 
That  to  their  lips  came  welling  up  like  gall. 

"  So,"  said  the  first,  "this  palace  without  folk, 
These  wonders  done  with  none  to  strike  a  stroke, 
This  singing  in  the  air,  and  no  one  seen, 
These  gifts  too  wonderful  for  any  queen, 
The  trance  wherein  we  both  were  wrapt  away, 
And  set  down  by  her  golden  house  to-day  — 
—  These  are  the  deeds  of  gods,  and  not  of  men ; 
And  fortunate  the  day  was  to  her,  when 
Weeping  she  left  the  house  where  we  were  born, 
And  all  men  deemed  her  shamed  and  most  forlorn." 

Then  said  the  other,  reddening  in  her  rage, 
' '  She  is  the  luckiest  one  of  all  this  age  ; 
And  yet  she  might  have  told  us  of  her  case, 
What  god  it  is  that  dwelleth  in  the  place, 
Nor  sent  us  forth  like  beggars  from  her  gate. 
And  beggarly,  O  sister,  is  our  fate, 
Whose  husbands  wring  from  miserable  hinds 
What  the  first  battle  scatters  to  the  winds  ; 
While  she  to  us,  whom  from  her  door  she  drives 
And  makes  of  no  account  or  honor,  gives 
Such  wonderful  and  priceless  gifts  as  these, 
Fit  to  bedeck  the  limbs  of  goddesses! 
And  yet  who  knows  but  she  may  get  a  fall  ? 


246  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

The  strongest  tower  has  not  the  highest  wall, 
Think  well  of  this,  when  you  sit  safe  at  home. " 

By  this  unto  the  river  were  they  come, 
Where  waited  Zephyrus  unseen,  who  cast 
A  languor  over  them  that  quickly  passed 
Into  deep  sleep,  and  on  the  grass  they  sank  ; 
Then  straightway  did  he  lift  them  from  the  bank, 
And  quickly  each  in  her  fair  house  set  down, 
Then  flew  aloft  above  the  sleeping  town. 

Long  in  their  homes  they  brooded  over  this, 
And  how  that  Psyche  nigh  a  goddess  is  ; 
While  all  folk  deemed  that  she  quite  lost  had  been, 
For  naught  they  said  of  all  that  they  had  seen. 

But  now  that  night  when  she,  with  many  a  kiss, 
Had  told  their  coming,  and  of  that  and  this 
That  happed,  he  said,  "These  things,  O  Love,  are  well ; 
Glad  am  I  that  no  evil  thing  befell. 
And  yet,  between  thy  father's  house  and  me 
Must  thou  choose  now  ;  then  either  royally 
Shalt  thou  go  home,  and  wed  some  king  at  last, 
And  have  no  harm  for  all  tkat  here  has  passed ; 
Or  else,  my  love,  bear,  as  thy  brave  heart  may, 
This  loneliness  in  hope  of  that  fair  day 
Which,  by  my  head,  shall  come  to  thee  ;  and  then. 
Shalt  thou  be  glorious  to  the  sons  of  men, 
And  by  my  side  shalt  sit  in  such  estate 
That  in  all  time  all  men  shall  sing  thy  fate." 

But  with  that  word  such  love  through  her  he  breathed, 
That  round  about  him  her  fair  arms  she  wreathed  ; 
And  so  with  loving  passed  the  night  away, 
And  with  fresh  hope  came  on  the  fresh  May-day. 
And  so  passed  many  a  day  and  many  a  night. 
And  weariness  was  balanced  with  delight, 
And  into  such  a  mind  was  Psyche  brought 
That  little  of  her  father's  house  she  thought, 
But  ever  of  the  happy  day  to  come 
When  she  should  go  unto  her  promised  home. 

Till  she,  that  threw  the  golden  apple  down 
Upon  the  board,  and  lighted  up  Troy  town, 
On  dusky  wings  came  flying  o'er  the  place, 
And  seeing  Psyche  with  her  happy  face 
Asleep  beneath  some  fair  tree  blossoming, 
Into  her  sleep  straight  cast  an  evil  thing ; 
Whereby  she  dreamed  she  saw  her  father  laid 


STORY  OF  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE.         247 

Panting  for  breath  beneath  the  golden  shade 

Of  his  great  bed's  embroidered  canopy, 

And  with  his  last  breath  moaning  heavily 

Her  name  and  fancied  woes  ;  thereat  she  woke, 

And  this  ill  dream  through  all  her  quiet  broke, 

And  when  next  morn  her  love  from  her  would  go, 

And  going,  as  it  was  his  wont  to  do, 

Would  kiss  her  sleeping,  he  must  find  the  tears 

Filling  the  hollows  of  her  rosy  ears 

And  wetting  half  the  golden  hair  that  lay 

'Twixt  him  and  her  :  then  did  he  speak  and  say, 

"  O  Love,  why  dost  thou  lie  awake  and  weep, 

Who  for  content  sliouldst  have  good  heart  to  sleep 

This  cold  hour  ere  the  dawning  ?  "     Naught  she  said, 

But  wept  aloud.     Then  cried  he,  "  By  my  head  ! 

Whate'er  thou  wishest  I  will  do  for  thee  ; 

Yea,  if  it  make  an  end  of  thee  and  me." 

"  O  Love,"  she  said,  "  I  scarce  dare  ask  again, 
Yet  is  there  in  mine  heart  an  aching  pain 
To  know  what  of  my  father  is  become  : 
So  would  I  send  my  sisters  to  my  home, 
Because  I  doubt  indeed  they  never  told 
Of  all  my  honor  in  this  house  of  gold  ; 
So  now  of  them  a  great  oath  would  I  take." 

He  said,  ' '  Alas  !  and  hast  thou  been  awake 
For  them  indeed  ?  who  in  my  arms  asleep 
Mightst  well  have  been  ;  for  their  sakes  didst  thou  weep, 
Who  mightst  have  smiled  to  feel  my  kiss  on  thee  ? 
Yet  as  thou  wishest  once  more  shall  it  be, 
Because  my  oath  constrains  me,  and  thy  tears. 
And  yet  again  beware,  and  make  these  fears 
Of  none  avail ;  nor  waver  any  more, 
I  pray  thee  :  for  already  to  the  shore 
Of  all  delights  and  joys  thou  drawest  nigh." 

He  spoke,  and  from  the  chamber  straight  did  fly 
To  highest  heaven,  and,  going  softly  then, 
Wearied  the  father  of  all  gods  and  men 
With  prayers  for  Psyche's  immortality. 

Meantime  went  Zephyrus  across  the  sea, 
To  bring  her  sisters  to  her  arms  again, 
Though  of  that  message  little  was  he  fain, 
Knowing  their  malice  and  their  cankered  hearts. 

For  now  these  two  had  thought  upon  their  parts, 
And  made  up  a  false  tale  for  Psyche's  ear  ; 


4.8  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

For  when  awaked,  to  her  they  drew  anear, 

Sobbing,  their  faces  in  their  hands  they  hid, 

Nor,  when  she  asked  them  why  this  thing  they  did, 

Would  answer  aught,  till  trembling  Psyche  said, 

"  Nay,  nay,  what  is  it  ?  is  our  father  dead  ? 

Or  do  ye  weep  these  tears  for  shame  that  ye 

Have  told  him  not  of  my  felicity, 

To  make  me  weep  amidst  my  new-found  bliss  ? 

Be  comforted,  for  short  the  highway  is 

To  my  forgiveness  :  this  day  shall  ye  go 

And  take  him  gifts,  and  tell  him  all  ye  know 

Of  this  my  unexpected  happy  lot. " 

Amidst  fresh  sobs  one  said,  ' '  We  told  him  not ; 
But  by  good  counsel  did  we  hide  the  thing, 
Deeming  it  well  that  he  should  feel  the  sting 
For  once,  than  for  awhile  be  glad  again, 
And  after  come  to  suffer  double  pain." 

"  Alas  !  what  mean  you,  sister?  "  Psyche  said, 
For  terror  waxing  pale  as  are  the  dead. 
"  O  sister,  speak  !  "     "  Child,  by  this  loving  kiss," 
Spake  one  of  them,  "  and  that  remembered  bliss 
We  dwelt  in  when  our  mother  was  alive, 
Or  ever  we  began  with  ills  to  strive, 
By  all  the  hope  thou  hast  to  see  again 
Our  aged  father  and  to  soothe  his  pain, 
I  charge  thee  tell  me,  —  Hast  thou  seen  the  thing 
Thou  callest  Husband  ?  " 

Breathless,  quivering, 

Psyche  cried  out,  "  Alas  !  what  sayest  thou  ? 
What  riddles  wilt  thou  speak  unto  me  now  ?  " 

' '  Alas ! "  she  said  ;  "then  is  it  as  I  thought 
Sister,  in  dreadful  places  have  we  sought 
To  learn  about  thy  case,  and  thus  we  found 
A  wise  man,  dwelling  underneath  the  ground 
In  a  dark  awful  cave  :  he  told  to  us 
A  horrid  tale  thereof,  and  piteous, 
That  thou  wert  wedded  to  an  evil  thing, 
A  serpent-bodied  fiend  of  poisonous  sting, 
Bestial  of  form,  yet  therewith  lacking  not 
E'en  such  a  soul  as  wicked  men  have  got, 
Thus  ages  long  agone  the  gods  made  him, 
And  set  him  in  a  lake  hereby  to  swim  ; 
But  every  hundred  years  he  hath  this  grace, 
That  he  may  change  within  this  golden  place 
Into  a  fair  young  man  by  night  alone. 
Alas,  my  sister,  thou  hast  cause  to  groan ! 


STORY  OF  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE.         249 

What  sayest  thou  ?  —  His  words  are  fair  and  soft ; 
He  raineth  loading  kisses  on  me  oft, 
Weeping  for  love  ;  he  tells  me  of  a  day 
When  from  this  place  we  both  shall  go  away, 
And  he  shall  kiss  me  then  no  more  unseen, 

The  while  I  sit  by  him  a  glorious  queen 

—  Alas,  poor  child  !  it  pleaseth  thee,  his  kiss  ? 
Then  must  I  show  thee  why  he  doeth  this  : 
Because  he  willeth  for  a  time  to  save 
Thy  body,  wretched  one  !  that  he  may  have 
Both  child  and  mother  for  his  watery  hell  — 
Ah,  what  a  tale  this  is  for  me  to  tell ! 

' '  Thou  prayest  us  to  save  thee,  and  we  can ; 
Since  for  naught  else  we  sought  that  wise  old  man, 
Who  for  great  gifts  and  seeing  that  of  kings 
We  both  were  come,  has  told  us  all  these  things, 
And  given  us  a  fair  lamp  of  hallowed  oil 
That  he  has  wrought  with  danger  and  much  toil ; 
And  thereto  has  he  added  a  sharp  knife, 
In  forging  which  he  wellnigh  lost  his  life, 
About  him  so  the  devils  of  the  pit 
Came  swarming  —  O  my  sister,  hast  thou  it  ?  " 

Straight  from  her  gown  the  other  one  drew  out 
The  lamp  and  knife,  which  Psyche,  dumb  with  doubt 
And  misery  at  once,  took  in  her  hand. 

Then  said  her  sister,  "  From  this  doubtful  land 
Thou  gav'st  us  royal  gifts  a  while  ago, 
But  these  we  give  thee,  though  they  lack  for  show, 
Shall  be  to  thee  a  better  gift,  —  thy  life. 
Put  now  in  some  sure  place  this  lamp  and  knife, 
And  when  he  sleeps  rise  silently  from  bed 
And  hold  the  hallowed  lamp  above  his  head, 
And  swiftly  draw  the  charmed  knife  across 
His  cursed  neck,  —  thou  well  mayst  bear  the  loss,  — 
Nor  shall  he  keep  his  man's  shape  more,  when  he 
First  feels  the  iron  wrought  so  mysticly  : 
But  thou,  flee  unto  us,  we  have  a  tale, 
Of  what  has  been  thy  lot  within  this  vale, 
When  we  have  'scaped  therefrom,  which  we  shall  do 
By  virtue  of  strange  spells  the  old  man  knew. 
Farewell,  sweet  sister !  here  we  may  not  stay, 
Lest  in  returning  he  should  pass  this  way  ; 
But  in  the  vale  we  will  not  fail  to  wait 
Till  thou  art  loosened  from  thine  evil  fate." 

Thus  went  they,  and  for  long  they  said  not  aught, 


250  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Fearful  lest  any  should  surprise  their  thought, 
But  in  such  wise  had  envy  conquered  fear, 
That  they  were  fain  that  eve  to  bide  anear 
Their  sister's  ruined  home  ;  but  when  they  came 
Unto  the  river,  on  them  fell  the  same 
Resistless  languor  they  had  felt  before, 
And  from  the  blossoms  of  that  flowery  shore 
Their  sleeping  bodies  soon  did  Zephyr  bear, 
For  other  folk  to  hatch  new  ills  and  care. 

But  on  the  ground  sat  Psyche  all  alone, 
The  lamp  and  knife  beside  her,  and  no  moan 
She  made,  but  silent  let  the  long  hours  go, 
Till  dark  night  closed  around  her  and  her  woe. 

Then  trembling  she  arose,  for  now  drew  near 
The  time  of  utter  loneliness  and  fear, 
And  she  must  think  of  death,  who  until  now 
Had  thought  of  ruined  life,  and  love  brought  low ; 
And  with  that  thought,  tormenting  doubt  there  came, 
And  images  of  some  unheard-of  shame, 
Until  forlorn,  entrapped  of  gods  she  felt, 
As  though  in  some  strange  hell  her  spirit  dwelt. 

Yet  driven  by  her  sisters'  words  at  last, 
And  by  remembrance  of  the  time  now  past, 
"When  she  stood  trembling,  as  the  oracle 
With  all  its  fearful  doom  upon  her  fell, 
She  to  her  hapless  wedding-chamber  turned, 
And  while  the  waxen  tapers  freshly  burned 
She  laid  those  dread  gifts  ready  to  her  hand, 
Then  quenched  the  lights,  and  by  the  bed  did  stand, 
Turning  these  matters  in  her  troubled  mind  ; 
And  sometimes  hoped  some  glorious  man  to  find 
Beneath  the  lamp,  fit  bridegroom  for  a  bride 
Like  her  ;  ah,  then  !  with  what  joy  to  his  side 
Would  she  creep  back  in  the  dark  silent  night ; 
But  whiles  she  quaked  at  thought  of  what  a  sight 
The  lamp  might  show  her ;  the  hot  rush  of  blood 
The  knife  might  shed  upon  her  as  she  stood, 
The  dread  of  some  pursuit ;  the  hurrying  out, 
Through  rooms  where  every  sound  would  seem  a  shout, 
Into  the  windy  night  among  the  trees, 
Where  many  a  changing  monstrous  sight  one  sees, 
When  naught  at  all  has  happed  to  chill  the  blood. 

But  as  among  these  evil  thoughts  she  stood, 
She  heard  him  coming,  and  straight  crept  to  bed, 


STORY  OF  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE.         251 

And  felt  him  touch  her  with  a  new-bora  dread, 
And  durst  not  answer  to  his  words  of  love. 
But  when  he  slept,  she  rose  that  tale  to  prove, 
And  sliding  down  as  softly  as  might  be, 
And  moving  through  the  chamber  quietly, 
She  gat  the  lamp  within  her  trembling  hand, 
And  long,  debating  still  these  things,  did  stand 
In  that  thick  darkness,  till  she  seemed  to  be 
A  dweller  in  some  black  eternity,* 
And  what  she  once  had  called  the  world  did  seem 
A  hollow  void,  a  colorless  mad  dream  ; 
For  she  felt  so  alone  —  three  times  in  vain 
She  moved  her  heavy  hand,  three  times  again 
It  fell  adown  ;  at  last  throughout  the  place 
Its  flame  glared,  lighting  up  her  woful  face, 
Whose  eyes  the  silken  carpet  did  but  meet, 
Grown  strange  and  awful,  and  her  own  wan  feet 
As  toward  the  bed  she  stole  ;  but  come  thereto 
Back  with  closed  eyes  and  quivering  lips,  she  threw 
Her  lovely  head,  and  strove  to  think  of  it, 
While  images  of  fearful  things  did  flit 
Before  her  eyes  ;  thus,  raising  up  the  hand 
That  bore  the  lamp,  one  moment  did  she  stand 
As  man's  time  tells  it,  and  then  suddenly 
Opened  her  eyes,  but  scarce  kept  back  a  cry 
At  what  she  saw  ;  for  there  before  her  lay 
The  very  Love  brighter  than  dawn  of  day  ; 
And,  as  he  lay  there  smiling,  her  own  name 
His  gentle  lips  in  sleep  began  to  frame, 
And,  as  to  touch  her  face  his  hand  did  move  ; 
O  then,  indeed,  her  faint  heart  swelled  for  love, 
And  she  began  to  sob,  and  tears  fell  fast 
Upon  the  bed.  —  But,  as  she  turned  at  last 
To  quench  the  lamp,  there  happed  a  little  thing 
That  quenched  her  new  delight,  for  nickering 
The  treacherous  flame  cast  on  his  shoulder  fair 
A  burning  drop  ;  he  woke,  and  seeing  her  there 
The  meaning  of  that  sad  sight  knew  full  well, 
Nor  was  there  need  the  piteous  tale  to  tell. 

Then  on  her  knees  she  fell  with  a  great  cry, 
For  in  his  face  she  saw  the  thunder  nigh, 
And  she  began  to  know  what  she  had  done, 
And  saw  herself  henceforth,  unloved,  alone, 
Pass  onward  to  the  grave  ;  and  once  again 
She  heard  the  voice  she  now  must  love  in  vain. 


252  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

"Ah,  has  it  come  to  pass?  and  hast  thou  lost 
A  life  of  love,  and  must  thou  still  be  tossed 
One  moment  in  the  sun  'twixt  night  and  night  ? 
And  must  I  lose  what  would  have  been  delight, 
Untasted  yet  amidst  immortal  bliss, 
To  wed  a  soul  made  worthy  of  my  kiss, 
Set  in  a  frame  so  wonderfully  made  ? 

' '  O  wavering  heart,  farewell !  be  not  afraid 
That  I  with  fire  will  burn  thy  body  fair, 
Or  cast  thy  sweet  limbs  piecemeal  through  the  air ; 
The  fates  shall  work  thy  punishment  alone, 
And  thine  own  memory  of  our  kindness  done. 

' '  Alas  !  what  wilt  thou  do  ?  how  shalt  thou  bear 
The  cruel  world,  the  sickening  still  despair, 
The  mocking,  curious  faces  bent  on  thee, 
When  thou  hast  known  what  love  there  is  in  me  ? 
O  happy  only,  if  thou  couldst  forget, 
And  live  unholpen,  lonely,  loveless  yet, 
But  untormented  through  the  little  span 
That  on  the  earth  ye  call  the  life  of  man. 
Alas !  that  thou,  too  fair  a  thing  to  die, 
Shouldst  so  be  born  to  double  misery ! 

"  Farewell !  though  I,  a  god,  can  never  know 
How  thou  canst  lose  thy  pain,  yet  time  will  go 
Over  thine  head,  and  thou  mayst  mingle  yet 
The  bitter  and  the  sweet,  nor  quite  forget, 
Nor  quite  remember,  till  these  things  shall  seem 
The  wavering  memory  of  a  lovely  dream." 

Therewith  he  caught  his  shafts  up  and  his  bow, 
And  striding  through  the  chambers  did  he  go, 
Light  all  around  him  ;  and  she,  wailing  sore, 
Still  followed  after ;  but  he  turned  no  more, 
And  when  into  the  moonlit  night  he  came 
From  out  her  sight  he  vanished  like  a  flame, 
And  on  the  threshold  till  the  dawn  of  day 
Through  all  the  changes  of  the  night  she  lay. 


AT  daybreak  when  she  lifted  up  her  eyes, 
She  looked  around  with  heavy  dull  surprise, 
And  rose  to  enter  the  fair  golden  place  ; 
But  then  remembering  all  her  piteous  case 
She  turned  away,  lamenting  very  sore, 
And  wandered  down  unto  the  river  shore  ; 


STORY  OF  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE.         253 

There,  at  the  head  of  a  green  pool  and  deep, 

She  stood  so  long  that  she  forgot  to  weep, 

And  the  wild  things  about  the  water-side 

From  such  a  silent  thing  cared  not  to  hide  ; 

The  dace  pushed  'gainst  the  stream,  the  dragon-fly, 

With  its  green-painted  wing,  went  flickering  by ; 

The  water-hen,  the  lustred  kingfisher, 

Went  on  their  ways  and  took  no  heed  of  her ; 

The  little  reed  birds  never  ceased  to  sing, 

And  still  the  eddy,  like  a  living  thing, 

Broke  into  sudden  gurgles  at  her  feet. 

But  'midst  these  fair  things,  on  that  morning  sweet, 

How  could  she,  weary  creature,  find  a  place  ? 

She  moved  at  last,  and  lifting  up  her  face, 

Gathered  her  raiment  up  and  cried,  "  Farewell, 

O  fairest  lord  !  and  since  I  cannot  dwell 

With  thee  in  heaven,  let  me  now  hide  my  head 

In  whatsoever  dark  place  dwell  the  dead  ! " 

And  with  that  word  she  leapt  into  the  stream, 
But  the  kind  river  even  yet  did  deem 
That  she  should  live,  and,  with  all  gentle  care, 
Cast  her  ashore  within  a  meadow  fair. 
Upon  the  other  side,  where  Shepherd  Pan 
Sat  looking  down  upon  the  water  wan, 
Goat-legged  and  merry,  who  called  out,  ' '  Fair  maid, 
Why  goest  thou  hurrying  to  the  feeble  shade 
Whence  none  return  ?     Well  do  I  know  thy  pain, 
For  I  am  old,  and  have  not  lived  in  vain  ; 
Thou  wilt  forget  all  that  within  a  while, 
And  on  some  other  happy  youth  wilt  smile  ; 
And  sure  he  must  be  dull  indeed  if  he 
Forget  not  all  things  in  his  ecstasy 
At  sight  of  such  a  wonder  made  for  him, 
That  in  that  clinging  gown  makes  mine  eyes  swim, 
Old  as  I  am  :  but  to  the  god  of  Love 
Pray  now,  sweet  child,  for  all  things  can  he  move." 

Weeping  she  passed  him,  but  full  reverently, 
And  well  she  saw  that  she  was  not  to  die 
Till  she  had  filled  the  measure  of  her  woe. 

So  through  the  mead  she  passed,  half  blind  and  slow, 
And  on  her  sisters  somewhat  now  she  thought ; 
"And,  pondering  on  the  evil  they  had  wrought, 
The  veil  fell  from  her,  and  she  saw  their  guile. 

"  Alas  ! "  she  said,  "  can  death  make  folk  so  vile? 
What  wonder  that  the  gods  are  glorious  then, 
Who  cannot  feel  the  hates  and  fears  of  men  ? 


*54  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Sisters,  alas,  for  what  ye  used  to  be ! 

Once  did  I  think,  whatso  might  hap  to  me, 

Still  at  the  worst,  within  your  arms  to  find 

A  haven  of  pure  love  ;  then  were  ye  kind, 

Then  was  your  joy  e'en  as  my  very  own  — 

And  now,  and  now,  if  I  can  be  alone 

That  is  my  best  :  but  that  can  never  be, 

For  your  unkindness  still  shall  stay  with  me 

When  ye  are  dead  —  But  thou,  my  love  !  my  dear  ! 

Wert  thou  not  kind  ? —  I  should  have  lost  my  fear 

Within  a  little  —  Yea,  and  e'en  just  now 

With  angry  godhead  on  thy  lovely  brow, 

Still  thou  wert  kind  —  And  art  thou  gone  away 

For  ever  ?     I  know  not,  but  day  by  day 

Still  will  I  seek  thee  till  I  come  to  die, 

And  nurse  remembrance  of  felicity 

Within  my  heart,  although  it  wound  me  sore ; 

For  what  am  I  but  thine  for  evermore  ! " 

Thenceforth  her  back  upon  the  world  she  turned 
As  she  had  kno%vn  it ;  in  her  heart  there  burned 
Such  deathless  love,  that  still  untired  she  went : 
The  huntsman,  dropping  down  the  woody  bent, 
In  the  still  evening  saw  her  passing  by, 
And  for  her  beauty  fain  would  draw  anigh, 
But  yet  durst  not ;  the  shepherd  on  the  down, 
Wondering,  would  shade  his  eyes  with  fingers  brown, 
As  on  the  hill's  brow,  looking  o'er  the  lands, 
She  stood  with  straining  eyes  and  clasped  hands, 
While  the  wind  blew  the  raiment  from  her  feet ; 
The  wandering  soldier  her  gray  eyes  would  meet, 
That  took  no  heed  of  him,  and  drop  his  own  ; 
Like  a  thin  dream  she  passed  the  clattering  town ; 
On  the  thronged  quays  she  watched  the  ships  come  in 
Patient,  amid  the  strange  outlandish  din ; 
Unscared  she  saw  the  sacked  towns'  miseries, 
And  marching  armies  passed  before  her  eyes. 
And  still  of  her  the  god  had  such  a  care 
None  did  her  wrong,  although  alone  and  fair. 
Through  rough  and  smooth  she  wandered  many  a  day, 
Till  all  her  hope  had  wellnigh  passed  away. 

Meanwhile  the  sisters,  each  in  her  own  home, 
Waited  the  day  when  outcast  she  should  come 
And  ask  their  pity  ;  when  perchance,  indeed, 
They  looked  to  give  her  shelter  in  her  need, 


STORY  OF  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE.         255 

And  with  soft  words  such  faint  reproaches  take 
As  she  durst  make  them  for  her  ruin's  sake  ; 
But  day  passed  day,  and  still  no  Psyche  came, 
And  while  they  wondered  whether,  to  their  shame, 
Their  plot  had  failed,  or  gained  its  end  too  well, 
And  Psyche  slain,  no  tale  thereof  could  tell.  — 
Amidst  these  things,  the  eldest  sister  lay 
Asleep  one  evening  of  a  summer  day, 
Dreaming  she  saw  the  god  of  love  anigh, 
Who  seemed  to  say  unto  her  lovingly, 
"  Hail  unto  thee,  fair  sister  of  my  love  ; 
Nor  fear  me  for  that  thou  her  faith  didst  prove, 
And  found  it  wanting,  for  thou  too  art  fair, 
Her  place  unfilled  ;  rise  then,  and  have  no  care 
For  father  or  for  friends,  but  go  straightway 
Unto  the  rock  where  she  was  borne  that  day ; 
There,  if  thou  hast  a  will  to  be  my  bride, 
Put  thou  all  fear  of  horrid  death  aside, 
And  leap  from  off  the  cliff,  and  there  will  come 
My  slaves,  to  bear  thee  up  and  take  thee  home. 
Haste  then,  before  the  summer  night  grows  late, 
For  in  my  house  thy  beauty  I  await ! " 

So  spake  the  dream  ;  and  through  the  night  did  sail, 
And  to  the  other  sister  bore  the  tale, 
While  this  one  rose,  nor  doubted  of  the  thing, 
Such  deadly  pride  unto  her  heart  did  cling ; 
But  by  the  tapers'  light  triumphantly, 
Smiling,  her  mirrored  body  did  she  eye, 
Then  hastily  rich  raiment  on  her  cast 
And  through  the  sleeping  serving-people  passed, 
And  looked  with  changed  eyes  on  the  moonlit  street, 
Nor  scarce  could  feel  the  ground  beneath  her  feet. 
But  long  the  time  seemed  to  her,  till  she  came 
There  where  her  sister  once  was  borne  to  shame  ; 
And  when  she  reached  the  bare  cliff's  rugged  brow 
She  cried  aloud,  "  O  Love,  receive  me  now, 
Who  am  not  all  unworthy  to  be  thine  !  " 
And  with  that  word,  her  jewelled  arms  did  shine 
Outstretched  beneath  the- moon,  and  with  one  breath 
She  sprung  to  meet  the  outstretched  arms  of  Death, 
The  only  god  that  waited  for  her  there, 
And  in  a  gathered  moment  of  despair 
A  hideous  thing  her  traitrous  life  did  seem. 

But  with  the  passing  of  that  hollow  dream 


256  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

The  other  sister  rose,  and  as  she  might, 

Arrayed  herself  alone  in  that  still  night, 

And  so  stole  forth,  and  making  no  delay 

Came  to  the  rock  anigh  the  dawn  of  day  ; 

No  warning  there  her  sister's  spirit  gave, 

No  doubt  came  nigh  her  the  doomed  soul  to  save, 

But  with  a  fever  burning  in  her  blood, 

With  glittering  eyes  and  crimson  cheeks  she  stood 

One  moment  on  the  brow,  the  while  she  cried, 

"  Receive  me,  Love,  chosen  to  be  thy  bride 

From  all  the  million  women  of  the  world  !  " 

Then  o'er  the  cliff  her  wicked  limbs  were  hurled, 

Nor  has  the  language  of  the  earth  a  name 

For  that  surprise  of  terror  and  of  shame. 


NOW,  midst  her  wanderings,  on  a  hot  noontide, 
Psyche  passed  down  a  road,  where  on  each  side 
The  yellow  cornfields  lay,  although  as  yet 
Unto  the  stalks  no  sickle  had  been  set ; 
The  lark  sung  over  them,  the  butterfly 
Flickered  from  ear  to  ear  distractedly, 
The  kestrel  hung  above,  the  weasel  peered 
From  out  the  wheat  stalks  on  her  unafeard, 
Along  the  road  the  trembling  poppies  shed 
On  the  burnt  grass  their  crumpled  leaves  and  red ; 
Most  lonely  was  it,  nothing  Psyche  knew 
Unto  what  land  of  all  the  world  she  drew ; 
Aweary  was  she,  faint  and  sick  at  heart, 
Bowed  to  the  earth  by  thoughts  of  that  sad  part 
She  needs  must  play  :  some  blue  flower  from  the  corn, 
That  in  her  fingers  erewhile  she  had  borne, 
Now  dropped  from  them,  still  clung  unto  her  gown  ; 
Over  the  hard  way  hung  her  head  adown 
Despairingly,  but  still  her  weary  feet 
Moved  on  half  conscious  her  lost  love  to  meet 

So  going,  at  the  last  she  raised  her  eyes, 
And  saw  a  grassy  mound  before  her  rise 
Over  the  yellow  plain,  and  thereon  was 
A  marble  fane  with  doors  of  burnished  brass, 
That  'twixt  the  pillars  set  about  it  burned ; 
So  thitherward  from  off  the  road  she  turned, 
And  soon  she  heard  a  rippling  water  sound, 
And  reached  a  stream  that  girt  the  hill  around, 


STORY  OF  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE.         257. 

Whose  green  waves  wooed  her  body  lovingly  ; 
So  looking  round,  and  seeing  no  soul  anigh, 
Unclad,  she  crossed  the  shallows,  and  there  laid 
Her  dusty  raiment  in  the  alder-shade, 
And  slipped  adown  into  the  shaded  pool, 
And  with  the  pleasure  of  the  water  cool 
Soothed  her  tired  limbs  awhile,  then  with  a  sigh 
Came  forth,  and  clad  her  body  hastily, 
And  up  the  hill  made  for  the  little  fane. 

But  when  its  threshold  now  her  feet  did  gain, 
She,  looking  through  the  pillars  of  the  shrine, 
Beheld  therein  a  golden  image  shine 
Of  golden  Ceres ;  then  she  passed  the  door, 
And  with  bowed  head  she  stood  awhile  before 
The  smiling  image,  striving  for  some  word 
That  did  not  name  her  lover  and  her  lord, 
Until  midst  rising  tears  at  last  she  prayed  : 

"  O  kind  one,  if  while  yet  I  was  a  maid 
I  ever  did  thee  pleasure,  on  this  day 
Be  kind  to  me,  poor  wanderer  on  the  way, 
Who  strive  my  love  upon  the  earth  to  meet ! 
Then  let  me  rest  my  weary,  doubtful  feet 
Within  thy  quiet  house  a  little  while, 
And  on  my  rest  if  thou  wouldst  please  to  smile, 
And  send  me  news  of  my  own  love  and  lord, 
It  would  not  cost  thee,  lady,  many  a  word. " 

But  straight  from  out  the  shrine  a  sweet  voice  came, 
"  O  Psyche,  though  of  me  thou  hast  no  blame, 
And  though  indeed  thou  sparedst  not  to  give 
What  my  soul  loved,  while  happy  thou  didst  live, 
Yet  little  can  I  give  now  unto  thee, 
Since  thou  art  rebel,  slave,  and  enemy 
Unto  the  love-inspiring  Queen  ;  this  grace 
Thou  hast  alone  of  me,  to  leave  this  place 
Free  as  thou  earnest,  though  the  lovely  one 
Seeks  for  the  sorceress  who  entrapped  her  son 
In  every  land,  and  has  small  joy  in  aught, 
Until  before  her  presence  thou  art  brought." 

Then  Psyche,  trembling  at  the  words  she  spake, 
Durst  answer  naught,  nor  for  that  counsel's  sake 
Could  other  offerings  leave  except  her  tears, 
As  now,  tormented  by  the  new-born  fears 
The  words  divine  had  raised  in  her,  she  passed 
The  brazen  threshold  once  again,  and  cast 
A  dreary  hopeless  look  across  the  plain, 
Whose  golden  beauty  now  seemed  naught  and  vain 
17 


258  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Unto  her  aching  heart ;  then  down  the  hill 
She  went,  and  crossed  the  shallows  of  the  rill, 
And  wearily  she  went  upon  her  way, 
Nor  any  homestead  passed  upon  that  day, 
Nor  any  hamlet,  and  at  night  lay  down 
Within  a  wood,  far  off  from  any  town. 

There,  waking  at  the  dawn,  did  she  behold, 
Through  the  green  leaves,  a  glimmer  as  of  gold, 
And,  passing  on,  amidst  an  oak  grove  found 
A  gold-adorned  pillared  temple  round, 
Whose  walls  were  hung  with  rich  and  precious  things, 
Worthy  to  be  the  ransom  of  great  kings  ; 
And  in  the  midst  of  gold  and  ivory 
An  image  of  Queen  J  uno  did  she  see  ; 
Then  her  heart  swelled  within  her,  and  she  thought, 
"  Surely  the  gods  hereto  my  steps  have  brought, 
And  they  will  yet  be  merciful  and  give 
Some  little  joy  to  me,  that  I  may  live 
Till  my  love  finds  me."     Then  upon  her  knees 
She  fell,  and  prayed,  "  O  Crown  of  goddesses, 
I  pray  thee,  give  me  shelter  in  this  place, 
Nor  turn  away  from  me  thy  much-loved  face, 
If  ever  I  gave  golden  gifts  to  thee 
In  happier  times  when  my  right  hand  was  free." 

Then  from  the  inmost  shrine  there  came  a  voice 
That  said,  "  It  is  so,  well  mayst  thou  rejoice 
That  of  thy  gifts  I  yet  have  memory, 
Wherefore  mayst  thou  depart  forewarned  and  free  ; 
Since  she  that  won  the  golden  apple  lives, 
And  to  her  servants  mighty  gifts  now  gives 
To  find  thee  out,  in  whatso  land  thou  art, 
For  thine  undoing :  loiter  not,  depart ! 
For  what  immortal  yet  shall  shelter  thee 
From  her  that  rose  from  out  the  unquiet  sea?" 

Then  Psyche  moaned  out  in  her  grief  and  fear, 
"  Alas  !  and  is  there  shelter  anywhere 
Upon  the  green  flame-hiding  earth  ?  "  said  she, 
"  Or  yet  beneath  it  is  there  peace  for  me? 
O  Love,  since  in  thine  arms  I  cannot  rest, 
Or  lay  my  weary  head  upon  thy  breast, 
Have  pity  yet  upon  thy  love  forlorn, 
Make  me  as  though  I  never  had  been  born  !  " 

Then  wearily  she  went  upon  her  way, 
And  so,  about  the  middle  of  the  day, 


STORY  OF  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE.         259 

She  came  before  a  green  and  flowery  place, 

Walled  round  about  in  manner  of  a  chase, 

Whereof  the  gates  as  now  were  open  wide ; 

Fair  grassy  glades  and  long  she  saw  inside 

Betwixt  great  trees,  down  which  the  unscared  deer 

Were  playing  ;  yet  a  pang  of  deadly  fear, 

She  knew  not  why,  shot  coldly  through  her  heart, 

And  thrice  she  turned  as  though  she  would  depart, 

And  thrice  returned,  and  in  the  gateway  stood 

With  wavering  feet :  small  flowers  as  red  as  blood 

Were  growing  up  amid  the  soft  green  grass, 

And  here  and  there  a  fallen  rose  there  was, 

And  on  the  trodden  grass  a  silken  lace, 

As  though  crowned  revellers  had  passed  by  the  place ; 

The  restless  sparrows  chirped  upon  the  wall, 

And  faint  far  music  on  her  ears  did  fall, 

And  from  the  trees  within,  the  pink-foot  doves 

Still  told  their  weary  tale  unto  their  loves, 

And  all  seemed  peaceful  more  than  words  could  say. 

Then  she,  whose  heart  still  whispered,  "  Keep  away," 
Was  drawn  by  strong  desire  unto  the  place, 
So  toward  the  greenest  glade  she  set  her  face, 
Murmuring,  "  Alas !  and  what  a  wretch  am  I, 
That  I  should  fear  the  summer's  greenery  ! 
Yea,  and  is  death  now  any  more  an  ill, 
When  lonely  through  the  world  I  wander  still." 

But  when  she  was  amidst  those  ancient  groves, 
Whose  close  green  leaves  and  choirs  of  moaning  doves 
Shut  out  the  world,  then  so  alone  she  seemed, 
So  strange,  her  former  life  was  but  as  dreamed, 
Beside  the  hopes  and  fears  that  drew  her  on, 
Till  so  far  through  that  green  place  she  had  won, 
That  she  a  rose-hedged  garden  could  behold 
Before  a  house  made  beautiful  with  gold ; 
Which,  to  her  mind  beset  with  that  past  dream, 
And  dim  foreshadowings  of  ill  fate,  did  seem 
That  very  house,  her  joy  and  misery, 
Where  that  fair  sight  her  longing  eyes  did  see 
They  should  not  see  again  ;  but  now  the  sound 
Of  pensive  music  ringing  all  around, 
Made  all  things  like  a  picture,  and  from  thence 
Bewildering  odors  floating,  dulled  her  sense, 
And  killed  her  fear,  and,  urged  by  strong  desire 
To  see  how  all  should  end,  she  drew  yet  nigher, 
And  o'er  the  hedge  beheld  the  heads  of  girfs 
Embraced  by  garlands  fresh  and  orient  pearls, 


26o  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And  heard  sweet  voices  murmuring  ;  then  a  thrill 

Of  utmost  joy  all  memory  seemed  to  kill 

Of  good  or  evil,  and  her  eager  hand 

Was  on  the  wicket,  then  her  feet  did  stand 

Upon  new  flowers,  the  while  her  dizzied  eyes 

Gazed  wildly  round  on  half  seen  mysteries, 

And  wandered  from  unnoting  face  to  face. 

For  round  a  fountain  midst  the  flowery  place 
Did  she  behold  full  many  a  minstrel  girl ; 
While  nigh  them,  on  the  grass  in  giddy  whirl, 
Bright  raiment  and  white  limbs  and  sandalled  feet 
Flew  round  in  time  unto  the  music  sweet, 
Whose  strains  no  more  were  pensive  now  or  sad, 
But  rather  a  fresh  sound  of  triumph  had  ; 
And  round  the  dance  were  gathered  damsels  fair, 
Clad  in  rich  robes  adorned  with  jewels  rare  ; 
Or  little  hidden  by  some  woven  mist, 
That,  hanging  round  them,  here  a  bosom  kissed 
And  there  a  knee,  or  driven  by  the  wind 
About  some  lily's  bowing  stem  was  twined. 

But  when  a  little  Psyche's  eyes  grew  clear, 
A  sight  they  saw  that  brought  back  all  her  fear 
A  hundred  fold,  though  neither  heaven  nor  earth 
To  such  a  fair  sight  elsewhere  could  give  birth  ; 
Because  apart,  upon  a  golden  throne 
Of  marvellous  work,  a  woman  sat  alone, 
Watching  the  dancers  with  a  smiling  face, 
Whose  beauty  sole  had  lighted  up  the  place. 
A  crown  there  was  upon  her  glorious  head, 
A  garland  round  about  her  girdlestead, 
Where  matchless  wonders  of  the  hidden  sea 
Were  brought  together  and  set  wonderfully ; 
Naked  she  was  of  all  else,  but  her  hair 
About  her  body  rippled  here  and  there, 
And  lay  in  heaps  upon  the  golden  seat, 
And  even  touched  the  gold  cloth  where  her  feet 
Lay  amid  roses,  — ah,  how  kind  she  seemed  ! 
What  depths  of  love  from  out  her  gray  eyes  beamed  ! 

Well  might  the  birds  leave  singing  on  the  trees 
To  watch  in  peace  that  crown  of  goddesses, 
Yet  well  might  Psyche  sicken  at  the  sight, 
And  feel  her  feet  wax  heavy,  her  head  light ; 
For  now  at  last  her  evil  day  was  come, 
Since  she  had  wandered  to  the  very  home 
Of  her  most  cruel  and  bitter  enemy. 


STORY  OF  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE.         261 

Half  dead,  yet  must  she  turn  about  to  flee, 
But,  as  her  eyes  back  o'er  her  shoulder  gazed, 
And  with  weak  hands  her  clinging  gown  she  raised, 
And  from  her  lips  unwitting  came  a  moan, 
She  felt  strong  arms  about  her  body  thrown, 
And,  blind  with  fear,  was  haled  along  till  she 
Saw  floating  by  her  faint  eyes  dizzily 
That  vision  of  the  pearls  and  roses  fresh, 
The  golden  carpet  and  the  rosy  flesh. 

Then,  as  in  vain  she  strove  to  make  some  sound, 
A  sweet  voice  seemed  to  pierce  the  air  around 
With  bitter  words  ;  her  doom  rang  in  her  ears, 
She  felt  the  misery  that  lacktth  tears. 
"  Come  hither,  damsels,  and  the  pearl  behold 
That  hath  no  price  ?     See  now  the  thrice  tried  gold, 
That  all  men  worshipped,  that  a  god  would  have 
To  be  his  bride  !  how  like  a  wretched  slave 
She  cowers  down,  and  lacketh  even  voice 
To  plead  her  cause !  Come,  damsels,  and  rejoice 
That  now  once  more  the  waiting  world  will  move, 
Since  she  is  found,  the  well-loved  soul  of  love  ! 

"  And  thou  poor  wretch,  what  god  hath  led  thee  here  ? 
Art  thou  so  lost  in  this  abyss  of  fear, 
Thou  canst  not  weep  thy  misery  and  shame  ? 
Canst  thou  not  even  speak  thy  shameful  name  ?  " 

But  even  then  the  flame  of  fervent  love 
In  Psyche's  tortured  heart  began  to  move, 
And  gave  her  utterance,  and  she  said,  "  Alas  ! 
Surely  the  end  of  life  has  come  to  pass 
For  me,  who  have  been  bride  of  very  Love, 
Yet  love  still  bides  in  me,  O  Seed  of  Jove, 
For  such  I  know  thee  ;  slay  me,  naught  is  lost ! 
For  had  I  had  the  will  to  count  the  cost 
And  buy  my  love  with  all  this  misery, 
Thus  and  no  otherwise  the  thing  should  be. 
Would  I  were  dead,  my  wretched  beauty  gone, 
No  trouble  now  to  thee  or  any  one !  " 

And  with  that  last  word  did  she  hang  her  head, 
As  one  who  hears  not,  whatsoe'er  is  said ; 
But  Venus  rising  with  a  dreadful  cry 
Said,  "  O  thou  fool,  I  will  not  let  thee  die ! 
But  thou  shalt  reap  the  harvest  thou  hast  sown 
And  many  a  day  thy  wretched  lot  bemoan. 
Thou  art  my  slave,  and  not  a  day  shall  be 
But  I  will  find  some  fitting  task  for  thee, 


262  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Nor  will  I  slay  thee  till  them  hop'st  again. 

What,  thinkest  thou  that  utterly  in  vain 

Jove  is  my  sire,  and  in  despite  my  will 

That  thou  canst  mock  me  with  thy  beauty  still  ? 

Come  forth,  O  strong-armed,  punish  this  new  slave, 

That  she  henceforth  a  humble  heart  may  have." 

All  round  about  the  damsels  in  a  ring 
Were  drawn  to  see  the  ending  of  the  thing, 
And  now,  as  Psyche's  eyes  stared  wildly  round, 
No  help  in  any  face  of  them  she  found, 
As  from  the  fair  and  dreadful  face  she  turned 
In  whose  gray  eyes  such  steadfast  anger  burned  ; 
Yet  midst  her  agony  she  sctrcely  knew 
What  thing  it  was  the  goddess  bade  them  do, 
And  all  the  pageant,  like  a  dreadful  dream, 
Hopeless  and  long-enduring  grew  to  seem  ; 
Yea,  when  the  strong-armed  through  the  crowd  did  break, 
Girls  like  to  those  whose  close-locked  squadrons  shake 
The  echoing  surface  of  the  Asian  plain, 
And  when  she  saw  their  threatening  hands,  in  vain 
She  strove  to  speak,  so  like  a  dream  it  was ; 
So  like  a  dream  that  this  should  come  to  pass, 
And  'neath  her  feet  the  green  earth  opened  not. 

But  when  her  breaking  heart  again  waxed  hot 
With  dreadful  thoughts  and  prayers  unspeakable 
As  all  their  bitter  torment  on  her  fell, 
When  she  her  own  voice  heard,  nor  knew  its  sound, 
And  like  red  flame  she  saw  the  trees  and  ground, 
Then  first  she  seemed  to  know  what  misery 
To  helpless  folk  upon  the  earth  can  be. 

But  while  beneath  the  many  moving  feet 
The  small  crushed  flowers  sent  up  their  odor  sweet, 
Above  sat  Venus,  calm,  and  very  fair, 
Her  white  limbs  bared  of  all  her  golden  hair, 
Into  her  heart  all  wrath  cast  back  again, 
As  on  the  terror  and  the  helpless  pain 
She  gazed  with  gentle  eyes,  and  unmoved  smiled  j 
Such  as  in  Cyprus,  the  fair-blossomed  isle, 
When  on  the  altar  in  the  summer  night 
They  pile  the  roses  up  for  her  delight, 
Men  see  within  their  hearts,  and  long  that  they 
Unto  her  very  body  there  might  pray. 

At  last  to  them  some  dainty  sign  she  made 
To  hold  their  cruel  hands,  and  therewith  bade 
To  bear  her  slave  new-gained  from  out  her  sight 


STORY  OF  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE.          263 

And  keep  her  safely  till  the  morrow's  light  : 
So  her  across  the  sunny  sward  they  led 
With  fainting  limbs,  and  heavy  downcast  head, 
And  into  some  nigh  lightless  prison  cast 
To  brood  alone  o'er  happy  days  long  past 
And  all  the  dreadful  times  that  yet  should  be. 
But  she  being  gone,  one  moment  pensively 
The  goddess  did  the  distant  hills  behold, 
Then  bade  her  girls  bind  up  her  hair  of  gold, 
And  veil  her  breast,  the  very  forge  of  love, 
With  raiment  that  no  earthly  shuttle  wove, 
And  'gainst  the  hard  earth  arm  her  lovely  feet : 
Then  she  went  forth  some  shepherd  king  to  meet 
Deep  in  the  hollow  of  a  shaded  vale, 
To  make  his  woes  a  long-enduring  tale. 


BUT  over  Psyche,  hapless  and  forlorn, 
Unseen  the  sun  rose  on  the  morrow  morn, 
Nor  knew  she  aught  about  the  death  of  night 
Until  her  gaoler's  torches  filled  with  light 
The  dreary  place,  blinding  her  unused  eyes, 
And  she  their  voices  heard  that  bade  her  rise  ; 
She  did  their  bidding,  yet  grown  faint  and  pale 
She  shrank  away  and  strove  her  arms  to  veil 
In  her  gown's  bosom,  and  to  hide  from  them 
Her  little  feet  within  her  garment's  hem  ; 
But  mocking  her,  they  brought  her  thence  away, 
And  led  her  forth  into  the  light  of  day, 
And  brought  her  to  a  marble  cloister  fair 
Where  sat  the  Queen  on  her  adorned  chair, 
But  she,  as  down  the  sun-streaked  place  they  came, 
Cried  out,  "  Haste  !  ye,  who  lead  my  grief  and  shame." 
And  when  she  stood  before  her  trembling,  said, 
"  Although  within  a  palace  thou  wast  bred 
Yet  dost  thou  carry  but  a  slavish  heart, 
And  fitting  is  it  thou  shouldst  learn  thy  part, 
And  know  the  state  whereunto  thou  art  brought  ; 
Now,  heed  what  yesterday  thy  folly  taught, 
And  set  thyself  to-day  my  will  to  do  ; 
Ho  ye,  bring  that  which  I  commanded  you." 

Then  forth  came  two,  and  each  upon  her  back 


264  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Bore  up  with  pain  a  huge  half-bursten  sack, 
Which,  setting  down,  they  opened  on  the  floor, 
And  from  their  hempen  mouths  a  stream  did  pour 
Of  mingled  seeds,  and  grain,  peas,  pulse,  and  wheat, 
Poppies  and  millet,  and  coriander  sweet, 
And  many  another  brought  from  far-off  lands, 
Which  mingling  more  with  swift  and  ready  hands 
They  piled  into  a  heap  confused  and  great 

And  then  said  Venus,  rising  from  her  seat, 
' '  Slave,  here  I  leave  thee,  but  before  the  night 
These  mingled  seeds  thy  hands  shall  set  aright, 
All  laid  in  "heaps,  each  after  its  own  kind, 
And  if  in  any  heap  I  chance  to  find 
An  alien  seed  ;  thou  knowest  since  yesterday 
How  disobedient  slaves  the  forfeit  pay." 

Therewith  she  turned  and  left  the  palace  fair, 
And  from  its  outskirts  rose  into  the  air, 
And  flew  until  beneath  her  lay  the  sea, 
Then,  looking  on  its  green  waves  lovingly, 
Somewhat  she  dropped,  and  low  adown  she  flew 
Until  she  reached  the  temple  that  she  knew 
Within  a  sunny  bay  of  her  fair  isle, 

But  Psyche  sadly  laboring  all  the  while 
With  hopeless  heart  felt  the  swift  hours  go  by, 
And  knowing  well  what  bitter  mockery 
Lay  in  that  task,  yet  did  she  what  she  might 
That  something  should  be  finished  ere  the  night, 
And  she  a  little  mercy  yet  might  ask  ; 
But  the  first  hours  of  that  long  feverish  task 
Passed  amid  mocks  ;  for  oft  the  damsels  came 
About  her,  and  made  merry  with  her  shame, 
And  laughed  to  see  her  trembling  eagerness, 
And  how  with  some  small  lappet  of  her  dress 
She  winnowed  out  the  wheat,  and  how  she  bent 
Over  the  millet,  hopelessly  intent ; 
And  how  she  guarded  well  some  tiny  heap 
But  just  begun  from  their  long  raiments'  sweep  ; 
And  how  herself,  with  girt  gown,  carefully 
She  went  betwixt  the  heaps  that  'gan  to  lie 
Along  the  floor  ;  though  they  were  small  enow, 
When  shadows  lengthened  and  the  sun  was  low  } 
But  at  the  last  these  left  her  laboring, 
Not  daring  now  to  weep,  lest  some  small  thing 
Should  'scape  her  blinded  eyes,  and  soon  far  off 
She  heard  the  echoes  of  their  careless  scoff. 


STORY  OF  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE.          265 

Longer  the  shades  grew,  quicker  sank  the  sun, 
Until  at  last  the  day  was  wellnigh  done, 
And  every  minute  did  she  think  to  hear 
The  fair  Queen's  dreaded  footsteps  drawing  near ; 
But  Love,  that  moves  the  earth  and  skies  and  sea, 
Beheld  his  old  love  in  her  misery, 
And  wrapped  her  heart  in  sudden  gentle  sleep  ; 
And  meanwhile  caused  unnumbered  ants  to  creep 
About  her,  and  they  wrought  so  busily 
That  all  ere  sundown  was  as  it  should  be, 
And  homeward  went  again  the  kingless  folk. 

Bewildered  with  her  joy  again  she  woke, 
But  scarce  had  time  the  unseen  hands  to  bless, 
That  thus  had  helped  her  utter  feebleness, 
Ere  Venus  came,  fresh  from  the  watery  way, 
Panting  with  all  the  pleasure  of  the  day  : 
But  when  she  saw  the  ordered  heaps,  her  smile 
Faded  away  ;  she  cried  out,  "  Base  and  vile 
Thou  art  indeed,  this  labor  fitteth  thee  ; 
But  now  I  know  thy  feigned  simplicity, 
Thine  inward  cunning,  therefore  hope  no  more, 
Since  thou  art  furnished  well  with  hidden  lore, 
To  'scape  thy  due  reward,  if  any  day 
Without  some  task  accomplished  pass  away  !  " 

So  with  a  frown  she  passed  on,  muttering, 
"  Naught  have  I  done,  to-morrow  a  new  thing." 

So  the  next  morning  Psyche  did  they  lead 
Unto  a  terrace  o'er  a  flowery  mead, 
Where  Venus  sat  hid  from  the  young  sun's  rays, 
Upon  the  fairest  of  all  summer  days  ; 
She  pointed  o'er  the. meads  as  they  drew  nigh, 
And  said,  "See  how  that  stream  goes  glittering  by, 
And  on  its  banks  my  golden  sheep  now  pass, 
Cropping  sweet  mouthfuls  of  the  flowery  grass  ; 
If  thou,  O  cunning  slave,  to-day  art  fain 
To  save  thyself  from  well-remembered  pain, 
Put  forth  a  little  of  thy  hidden  skill, 
And  with  their  golden  fleece  thy  bosom  fill ; 
Yet  make  no  haste,  but  ere  the  sun  is  down 
Cast  it  before  my  feet  from  out  thy  gown  ; 
Surely  thy  labor  is  but  light  to-day." 

Then  sadly  went  poor  Psyche  on  her  way, 
Wondering  wherein  the  snare  lay,  for  she  knew 
No  easy  thing  it  was  she  had  to  do  ; 
Nor  had  she  failed  indeed  to  note  the  smile 


266  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Wherewith  the  goddess  praised  her  for  the  guile 
That  she,  unhappy,  lacked  so  utterly. 

Amidst  these  thoughts  she  crossed  the  flowery  lea, 
And  came  xinto  the  glittering  river's  side  ; 
And,  seeing  it  was  neither  deep  nor  wide, 
She  drew  her  sandals  off,  and  to  the  knee 
Girt  up  her  gown,  and  by  a  willow-tree 
Went  down  into  the  water,  and  but  sank 
Up  to  midleg  therein  ;  but  from  the  bank 
She  scarce  had  gone  three  steps,  before  a  voice 
Called  out  to  her,  "  Stay,  Psyche,  and  rejoice 
That  I  am  here  to  help  thee,  a  poor  reed, 
The  soother  of  the  loving  hearts  that  bleed, 
The  pourer-forth  of  notes,  that  oft  have  made 
The  weak  man  strong  and  the  rash  man  afraid. 

"  Sweet  child,  when  by  me  now  thy  dear  foot  trod, 
I  knew  thee  for  the  loved  one  of  our  god  ; 
Then  prithee  take  my  counsel  in  good  part ; 
Go  to  the  shore  again,  and  rest  thine  heart 
In  sleep  awhile,  until  the  sun  get  low, 
And  then  across  the  river  shalt  thou  go 
And  find  these  evil  creatures  sleeping  fast, 
And  on  the  bushes  whereby  they  have  passed 
Much  golden  wool ;  take  what  seems  good  to  thee, 
And  ere  the  sun  sets  go  back  easily. 
But  if  within  that  mead  thou  sett'st  thy  feet 
While  yet  they  wake,  an  ill  death  shalt  thou  meet, 
For  they  are  of  a  cursed  man-hating  race, 
Bred  by  a  giant  in  a  lightless  place." 

But  at  these  words  soft  tears  filled  Psyche's  eyes 
As  hope  of  love  within  her  heart  did  rise ; 
And  when  she  saw  she  was  not  helpless  yet 
Her  old  desire  she  would  not  quite  forget ; 
But,  turning  back,  upon  the  bank  she  lay 
In  happy  dreams  till  nigh  the  end  of  day  ; 
Then  did  she  cross  and  gather  of  the  wool, 
And  with  her  bosom  and  her  gown-skirt  full 
Came  back  to  Venus  at  the  sunsetting  ; 
But  she  afar  off  saw  it  glistering 
And  cried  aloud,  "  Go,  take  the  slave  away, 
And  keep  her  safe  for  yet  another  day, 
And  on  the  morning  will  I  think  again 
Of  some  fresh  task,  since  with  so  little  pain 
She  doeth  what  the  gods  find  hard  enow  ; 
For  since  the  winds  were  pleased  this  waif  to  blow 
Unto  my  door,  a  fool  I  were  indeed, 
If  I  should  fail  to  use  her  for  my  need. " 


STORY  OF  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE.         26? 

So  her  they  led  away  from  that  bright  sun, 
Now  scarce  more  hopeful  that  the  task  was  done, 
Since  by  those  bitter  words  she  knew  full  well 
Another  tale  the  coming  day  would  tell. 

But  the  next  morn  upon  a  turret  high, 
Where  the  wind  kissed  her  raiment  lovingly, 
Stood  Venus  waiting  her  ;  and  when  she  came 
She  said,  ' '  O  slave,  thy  city's  very  shame, 
Lift  up  thy  cunning  eyes,  and  looking  hence 
Shalt  thou  behold  betwixt  these  battlements, 
A  black  and  barren  mountain  set  aloof 
From  the  green  hills,  shaped  like  a  palace  roof. 
Ten  leagues  from  hence  it  lieth  toward  the  north, 
And  from  its  rocks  a  fountain  welleth  forth, 
Black  like  itself,  and  floweth  down  its  side, 
And  in  a  while  part  into  Styx  doth  glide, 
And  part  into  Cocytus  runs  away  ; 
Now  coming  thither  by  the  end  of  day, 
Fill  me  this  ewer  from  the  awful  stream  ; 
Such  task  a  sorceress  like  thee  will  deem 
A  little  matter  ;  bring  it  not  to  pass, 
And  if  thou  be  not  made  of  steel  or  brass, 
To-morrow  shalt  thou  find  the  bitterest  day 
Thou  yet  hast  known,  and  all  be  sport  and  play 
To  what  thy  heart  in  that  hour  shall  endure  — 
Behold,  I  swear  it,  and  my  word  is  sure  1 " 

She  turned  therewith  to  go  down  toward  the  sea, 
To  meet  her  lover,  who  from  Thessaly 
Was  come  from  some  well-foughten  field  of  war. 

But  Psyche,  wandering  wearily  afar, 
Reached  the  bare  foot  of  that  black  rock  at  last, 
And  sat  there  grieving  for  the  happy  past, 
For  surely  now,  she  thought,  no  help  could  be, 
She  had  but  reached  the  final  misery, 
Nor  had  she  any  counsel  but  to  weep. 

For  not  alone  the  place  was  very  steep, 
And  craggy  beyond  measure,  but  she  knew 
What  well  it  was  that  she  was  driven  to, 
The  dreadful  water  that  the  gods  swear  by, 
For  there  on  either  hand,  as  one  draws  nigh, 
Are  long-necked  dragons  ready  for  the  spring, 
And  many  another  monstrous  nameless  thing, 
The  very  sight  of  which  is  wellnigh  death  ; 
Then  the  black  water  as  it  goes  crieth, 


268  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

"  Fly,  wretched  one,  before  you  come  to  die  ! 
Die,  wretched  man  !  I  will  not  let  you  fly ! 
How  have  you  heart  to  come  before  me  here  ? 
You  have  no  heart,  your  life  is  turned  to  fear  ! " 
Till  the  wretch  falls  adown  with  whirling  brain, 
And  far  below  the  sharp  rocks  end  his  pain. 

Well  then  might  Psyche  wail  her  wretched  fate, 
And  strive  no  more,  but  sitting  weep  and  wait 
Alone  in  that  black  land  for  kindly  death, 
With  weary  sobbing  wasting  life  and  breath ; 
But  o'er  her  head  there  flew  the  bird  of  Jove, 
The  bearer  of  his  servant,  friend  of  Love, 
Who,  when  he  saw  her,  straightway  towards  her  flew, 
And  asked  her  why  she  wept,  and  when  he  knew, 
And  who  she  was,  he  said,  "  Cease  all  thy  fear, 
For  to  the  black  waves  I  thy  ewer  will  bear, 
And  fill  it  for  thee  ;  but  remember  me, 
When  thou  art  come  unto  thy  majesty. " 

Then  straight  he  flew,  and  through  the  dragon's  wings 
Went  carelessly,  nor  feared  their  clatterings, 
But  set  the  ewer,  filled,  in  her  right  hand, 
And  on  that  day  saw  many  another  land. 

Then  Psyche  through  the  night  toiled  back  again, 
And  as  she  went,  she  thought,  "  Ah  !  all  is  vain, 
For  though  once  more  I  just  escape  indeed, 
Yet  hath  she  many  another  wile  at  need  ; 
And  to  these  days  when  I  my  life  first  learn 
With  unavailing  longing  shall  I  turn, 
When  this  that  seemeth  now  so  horrible 
Shall  then  seem  but  the  threshold  of  her  hell 
Alas  !  what  shall  I  do  ?  for  even  now 
In  sleep  I  see  her  pitiless  white  brow, 
And  hear  the  dreadful  sound  of  her  commands, 
While  with  my  helpless  body  and  bound  hands 
I  tremble  underneath  the  cruel  whips  ; 
And  oft  for  dread  of  her  with  quivering  lips 
I  wake,  and  waking  know  the  time  draws  nigh 
When  naught  shall  wake  me  from  that  misery  — 
Behold,  O  Love,  because  of  thee  I  live, 
Because  of  thee  with  these  things  still  I  strive." 


STOXY  OF  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE.         269 


NOW  with  the  risen  sun  her  weary  feet 
The  late-strewn  roses  of  the  floor  did  meet 
Upon  the  marble  threshold  of  the  place  ; 
But  she  being'  brought  before  the  matchless  face, 
Fresh  with  the  new  life  of  another  day, 
Beheld  her  wondering,  for  the  goddess  lay 
With  half-shut  eyes  upon  her  golden  bed, 
And  when  she  entered  scarcely  turned  her  head, 
But  smiling  spake,  "  The  gods  are  good  to  thee, 
Nor  shalt  thou  always  be  mine  enemy  ; 
But  one  more  task  I  charge  thee  with  to-day, 
For  unto  Proserpine  take  thou  thy  way, 
And  give  this  golden  casket  to  her  hands, 
And  pray  the  fair  Queen  of  the  gloomy  lands 
To  fill  the  void  shell  with  that  beauty  rare 
That  long  ago  as  Queen  did  set  her  there  ; 
Nor  needest  thou  to  fail  in  this  new  thing, 
•  Who  hast  to-day  the  heart  and  wit  to  bring 
This  dreadful  water,  and  return  alive  ; 
And,  that  thou  may'st  the  more  in  this  thing  strive, 
If  thou  returnest  I  will  show  at  last 
My  kindness  unto  thee,  and  all  the  past 
Shalt  thou  remember  as  an  ugly  dream. " 
And  now  at  first  to  Psyche  did  it  seem 
Her  heart  was  softening  to  her,  and  the  thought 
Swelled  her  full  heart  to  sobbing,  and  it  brought 
Into  her  yearning  eyes  half-happy  tears  : 
But  on  her  way  cold  thoughts  and  dreadful  fears 
Rose  in  her  heart,  for  who  indeed  could  teach 
A  living  soul  that  dread  abode  to  reach 
And  yet  return  ?  and  then  once  more  it  seemed 
The  hope  of  mercy  was  but  lightly  dreamed, 
And  she  remembered  that  triumphant  smile, 
And  needs  must  think,  "  This  is  the  final  wile, 
Alas  !  what  trouble  must  a  goddess  take 
So  weak  a  thing  as  this  poor  heart  to  break. 

"  See  now  this  tower!  from  off  its  top  will  I 
Go  quick  to  Proserpine  —  ah,  good  to  die  ! 
Rather  than  hear  those  shameful  words  again, 
And  bear  that  unimaginable  pain 
She  has  been  treasuring  up  against  this  day  ! 
O  Love,  farewell,  thou  seest  all  hope  is  dead, 
Thou  seest  what  torments  on  my  wretched  head 
Thy  bitter  mother  doth  not  cease  to  heap  ; 


70  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Farewell,  O  Love,  for  thee  and  life  I  weep. 
Alas,  my  foolish  heart  !  alas,  my  sin  ! 
Alas,  for  all  the  love  I  could  not  win  !  " 

Now  was  this  tower  both  old  enough  and  gray, 
Built  by  some  king  forgotten  many  a  day, 
And  no  man  dwelt  there,  now  that  bitter  war 
From  that  bright  land  had  long  been  driven  afar ; 
There  now  she  entered,  trembling  and  afraid  ; 
But  'neath  her  doubtful  steps  the  dust,  long  laid 
In  utter  rest,  rose  up  into  the  air, 
And  wavered  in  the  wind  that  down  the  stair 
Rushed  to  the  door  ;  then  she  drew  back  a  pace, 
Moved  by  the  coldness  of  the  lonely  place 
That  for  so  long  had  seen  no  ray  of  sun. 

Then  shuddering  did  she  hear  these  words  begun, 
Like  a  wind's  moaning  voice,  "  Have  thou  no  fear 
The  hollow  words  of  one  long  slain  to  hear ! 
Thou  livest,  and  thy  hope  is  not  yet  dead, 
And  if  thou  heedest  me,  thou  well  may'st  tread 
The  road  to  hell,  and  yet  return  again. 

"  For  thou  must  go  o'er  many  a  hill  and  plain 
Until  to  Sparta  thou  art  come  at  last, 
And  when  the  ancient  city  thou  hast  passed 
A  mountain  shall  thou  reach,  that  men  now  call 
Great  Taenarus,  that  riseth  like  a  wall 
'Twixt  plain  and  upland,  therein  shalt  thou  find 
The  wide  mouth  of  a  cavern  huge  and  blind, 
Wherein  there  cometh  never  any  sun, 
Whose  dreadful  darkness  all  things  living  shun  ; 
This  shun  thou  not,  but  yet  take  care  to  have 
Three  honey-cakes  thy  soul  alive  to  save, 
And  in  thy  mouth  a  piece  of  money  set, 
Then  through  the  dark  go  boldly,  and  forget 
The  stories  thou  hast  heard  of  death  and  hell, 
And  heed  my  words,  and  then  shall  all  be  welL 

"  For  when  thou  hast  passed  through  that  cavern  blind, 
A  place  of  dim  gray  meadows  shalt  thou  find, 
Wherethrough  to  inmost  hell  a  path  doth  lead, 
Which  follow  thou  with  diligence  and  heed ; 
For  as  thou  goest  there,  thou  soon  shalt  see 
Two  men  like  peasants  loading  painfully 
A  fallen  ass  ;  these  unto  thee  will  call 
To  help  them,  but  give  thou  no  heed  at  all, 
But  pass  them  swiftly  ;  and  then  soon  again 
Within  a  shed  three  crones  shalt  thou  see  plain 


STORY  OF  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE.         271 

Busily  weaving,  who  shall  bid  thee  leave 
The  road  and  fill  their  shuttles  while  they  weave, 
But  slacken  not  thy  steps  for  all  their  prayers, 
For  these  are  shadows  only,  and  set  snares. 

"  At  last  thou  comest  to  a  water  wan, 
And  at  the  bank  shall  be  the  ferryman 
Surly  and  gray  ;  and  when  he  asketh  thee 
Of  money  for  thy  passage,  hastily 
Show  him  thy  mouth,  and  straight  from  off  thy  lip 
The  money  he  will  take,  and  in  his  ship 
Embark  thee  and  set  forward  ;  but  beware, 
For  on  thy  passage  is  another  snare ; 
From  out  the  waves  a  grisly  head  shall  come, 
Most  like  thy  father  thou  hast  left  at  home, 
And  pray  for  passage  long  and  piteously, 
But  on  thy  life  of  him  have  no  pity, 
Else  art  thou  lost ;  also  thy  father  lives, 
And  in  the  temples  of  the  high  gods  gives 
Great  daily  gifts  for  thy  returning  home. 

"  When  thou  unto  the  other  side  art  come, 
A  palace  shall  thou  see  of  fiery  gold, 
And  by  the  door  thereof  shall  thou  behold 
An  ugly  triple  monster,  that  shall  yell 
For  thine  undoing  ;  now  behold  him  well, 
And  into  each  mouth  of  him  cast  a  cake, 
And  no  more  heed  of  thee  then  shall  he  take, 
And  thou  may'st  pass  into  a  glorious  hall 
Where  many  a  wonder  hangs  upon  the  wall ; 
But  far  more  wonderful  than  anything 
The  fair  slim  consort  of  the  gloomy  King, 
Arrayed  all  royally  shall  thou  behold, 
Who  sitting  on  a  carven  throne  of  gold, 
Whene'er  thou  enterest  shall  rise  up  to  thee, 
And  bid  thee  welcome  there  mosl  lovingly, 
And  pray  Ihee  on  a  royal  bed  lo  sit, 
And  share  her  feasl ;  yet  eat  thou  not  of  it, 
But  sitting  on  the  ground  eat  bread  alone, 
Then  do  thy  message  kneeling  by  her  throne  ; 
And  when  thou  hast  the  gift,  return  with  speed ; 
The  sleepy  dog  of  thee  shall  take  no  heed, 
The  ferryman  shall  bear  thee  on  thy  way 
Withoul  more  words,  and  thou  shall  see  Ihe  day 
Unharmed  if  lhal  dread  box  Ihou  openest  not ; 
But  if  thou  dost,  then  death  shall  be  thy  lot. 

"  O  beauliful,  when  safe  Ihou  com'st  again, 


272  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Remember  me,  who  lie  here  in  such  pain 
Unburied  ;  set  me  in  some  tomb  of  stone, 
When  thou  hast  gathered  every  little  bone  ; 
But  never  shalt  thou  set  thereon  a  name, 
Because  my  ending  was  with  grief  and  shame, 
Who  was  a  Queen  like  tliee  long  years  agone, 
And  in  this  tower  so  long  have  lain  alone." 


Then,  pale  and  full  of  trouble,  Psyche  went 
Bearing  the  casket,  and  her  footsteps  bent 
To  Lacedsemon,  and  thence  found  her  way 
To  Taenarus,  and  there  the  golden  day 
For  that  dark  cavern  did  she  leave  behind  ; 
Then,  going  boldly  through  it,  did  she  find 
The  shadowy  meads  which  that  wide  way  ran  through, 
Under  a  seeming  sky  'twixt  gray  and  blue  ; 
No  wind  blew  there  ;  there  was  no  bird  or  tree 
Or  beast,  and  dim  gray  flowers  she  did  but  see 
That  never  faded  in  that  changeless  place, 
And  if  she  had  but  seen  a  living  face 
Most  strange  and  bright  she  would  have  thought  it  there, 
Or  if  her  own  face,  troubled  yet  so  fair, 
The  still  pools  by  the  roadside  could  have  shown, 
The  dimness  of  that  place  she  might  have  known  ; 
But  their  dull  surface  cast  no  image  back, 
For  all  but  dreams  of  light  that  land  did  lack. 

So  on  she  passed,  still  noting  everything, 
Nor  yet  had  she  forgotten  there  to  bring 
The  honey-cakes  and  money  ;  in  a  while 
She  saw  those  shadows  striving  hard  to  pile 
The  bales  upon  the  ass,  and  heard  them  call, 
"  O  woman,  help  us !  for  our  skill  is  small 
And  we  are  feeble  in  this  place  indeed  "  ; 
But  swiftly  did  she  pass,  nor  gave  them  heed, 
Though  after  her  from  far  their  cries  they  sent 

Then  a  long  way  adown  that  road  she  went, 
Not  seeing  aught,  till,  as  the  Shade  had  said, 
She  came  upon  three  women  in  a  shed 
Busily  weaving,  who  cried.  "  Daughter,  leave 
The  beaten  road  awhile,  and  as  we  weave 
Fill  thou  our  shuttles  with  these  endless  threads, 
For  here  our  eyes  are  sleepy,  and  our  heads 
Are  feeble  in  this  miserable  place. " 
But  for  their  words  she  did  but  mend  her  pace, 
Although  her  heart  beat  quick  as  she  passed  by. 


STORY  OF  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE.         273 

Then  on  she  w  ^nt,  until  she  could  espy 
The  wan,  gray  river  lap  the  leaden  bank 
Wherefrom  there  sprouted  sparsely  sedges  rank, 
And  there  the  road  had  end  in  that  sad  boat 
Wherein  the  dead  men  unto  Minos  float ; 
There  stood  the  ferryman,  who  now,  seeing  her,  said, 
"  O  living  soul,  that  thus  among  the  dead 
Hast  come,  on  whatso  errand,  without  fear, 
Know  thou  that  penniless  none  passes  here  ; 
Of  all  the  coins  that  rich  men  have  on  earth 
To  buy  the  dreadful  folly  they  call  mirth, 
But  one  they  keep  when  they  have  passed  the  grave 
That  o'er  this  stream  a  passage  they  may  have ; 
And  thou,  though  living,  art  but  dead  to  me, 
Who  here,  immortal,  see  mortality 
Pass,  stripped  of  this  last  thing  that  men  desire 
Unto  the  changeless  meads  or  changeless  fire." 

Speechless  she  showed  the  money  on  her  lip 
Which  straight  he  took,  and  set  her  in  the  ship, 
And  then  the  wretched,  heavy  oars  he  threw 
into  the  rowlocks  and  the  flood  they  drew ; 
Silent,  with  eyes  that  looked  beyond  her  face, 
He  labored,  and  they  left  the  dreary  place. 

But  midmost  of  that  water  did  arise 
A  dead  man,  pale,  with  ghastly  staring  eyes 
That  somewhat  like  her  father  still  did  seem, 
But  in  such  wise  as  figures  in  a  dream  ; 
Then  with  a  lamentable  voice  it  cried, 
"  O  daughter,  I  am  dead,  and  in  this  tide 
Forever  shall  I  drift,  an  unnamed  thing, 
Who  was  thy  father  once,  a  mighty  king, 
Unless  thou  takest  pity  on  me  now, 
And  bidd'st  the  ferryman  turn  here  his  prow, 
That  I  with  thee  to  some  abode  may  cross ; 
And  little  unto  thee  will  be  the  loss, 
And  unto  me  the  gain  will  be  to  come 
To  such  a  place  as  I  may  call  a  home, 
Being  now  but  dead  and  empty  of  delight, 
And  set  in  this  sad  place  'twixt  dark  and  light." 

Now  at  these  words  the  tears  ran  down  apace 
For  memory  of  the  once  familiar  face, 
And  those  old  days,  wherein  a  little  child 
'Twixt  awe  and  love  beneath  those  eyes  she  smiled  ; 
False  pity  moved  her  veiy  heart,  although 
The  guile  of  Venus  she  failed  not  to  know, 
But  tighter  round  the  casket  clasped  her  hands, 
18 


274  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And  shut  her  eyes,  remembering  the  commands 
Of  that  dead  queen  :  so  safe  to  land  she  came. 

And  there  in  that  gray  country,  like  a  flame 
Before  her  eyes  rose  up  the  house  of  gold, 
And  at  the  gate  she  met  the  beast  threefold, 
Who  ran  to  meet  her  open-mouthed,  but  she 
Unto  his  jaws  the  cakes  cast  cunningly, 
But  trembling  much  ;  then  on  the  ground  he  lay 
Lolling  his  heads,  and  let  her  go  her  way  ; 
And  so  she  came  into  the  mighty  hall, 
And  saw  those  wonders  hanging  on  the  wall, 
That  all  with  pomegranates  was  covered  o'er 
In  memory  of  the  meal  on  this  sad  shore, 
Whereby  fair  Enna  was  bewept  in  vain, 
And  this  became  a  kingdom  and  a  chain. 

But  on  a  throne,  the  Queen  of  all  the  dead 
She  saw  therein  with  gold-embraced  head, 
In  royal  raiment,  beautiful  and  pale  ; 
Then  with  slim  hands  her  face  did  Psyche  veil 
In  worship  of  her,  who  said,  "  Welcome  here, 
O  messenger  of  Venus  !  thou  art  dear 
To  me  thyself  indeed,  for  of  thy  grace 
And  loveliness  we  know  e'en  in  this  place  ; 
Rest  thee  then,  fair  one,  on  this  royal  bed 
And  with  some  dainty  food  shall  thou  be  fed  ; 
Ho,  ye  who  wait,  bring  in  the  tables  now  !  " 

Therewith  were  brought  things  glorious  of  show 
On  cloths  and  tables  royally  beseen, 
By  damsels  each  one  fairer  than  a  queen, 
The  very  latchets  of  whose  shoes  were  worth 
The  royal  crown  of  any  queen  on  earth  ; 
But  when  upon  them  Psyche  looked,  she  saw 
That  all  these  dainty  matters  without  flaw 
Were  strange  of  shape  and  of  strange-blended  hues, 
So  every  cup  and  plate  did  she  refuse 
Those  lovely  hands  brought  to  her,  and  she  said, 
' '  O  Queen,  to  me  amidst  my  awe  and  dread 
These  things  are  naught,  my  message  is  not  done, 
So  let  me  rest  upon  this  cold  gray  stone, 
And  while  my  eyes  no  higher  than  thy  feet 
Are  lifted,  eat  the  food  that  mortals  eat. " 

Therewith  upon  the  floor  she  sat  her  down 
And  from  the  folded  bosom  of  her  gown 
Drew  forth  her  bread  and  ate,  while  with  cold  eyes 
Regarding  her  'twixt  anger  and  surprise, 


STORY  OF  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE.         275 

The  Queen  sat  silent  for  a  while,  then  spoke, 
"  Why  art  thou  here,  wisest  of  living  folk  ? 
Depart  in  haste,  lest  thou  shouldst  come  to  be 
Thyself  a  helpless  thing  and  shadowy ! 
Give  me  the  casket  then,  thou  need'st  not  say  • 

Wherefore  thou  thus  hast  passed  the  awful  way  ; 
Bide  there,  and  for  thy  mistress  shalt  thou  have 
The  charm  that  beauty  from  all  change  can  save." 

Then  Psyche  rose,  and  from  her  trembling  hand 
Gave  her  the  casket,  and  awhile  did  stand 
Alone  within  the  hall,  that  changing  light 
From  burning  streams,  and  shadowy  waves  of  night 
Made  strange  and  dread,  till  to  her  standing  there 
The  world  began  to  seem  no  longer  fair, 
Life  no  more  to  be  hoped  for,  but  that  place 
The  peaceful  goal  of  all  the  hurrying  race, 
The  house  she  must  return  to  on  some  day. 

Then,  sighing,  scarcely  could  she  turn  away 
When  with  the  casket  came  the  Queen  once  more, 
And  said,  "  Haste  now  to  leave  this  shadowy  shore 
Before  thou  changest ;  even  now  I  see 
Thine  eyes  are  growing  strange,  thou  look'st  on  me 
E'en  as  the  linnet  looks  upon  the  snake. 
Behold,  thy  wisely  guarded  treasure  take, 
And  let  thy  breath  of  life  no  longer  move 
The  shadows  with  the  memories  of  past  love." 

But  Psyche  at  that  name,  with  quickened  heart 
Turned  eagerly,  and  hastened  to  depart 
Bearing  that  burden,  hoping  for  the  day  ; 
Harmless,  asleep,  the  triple  monster  lay, 
The  ferryman  did  set  her  in  his  boat 
Unquestioned,  and  together  did  they  float 
Over  the  leaden  water  back  again  : 
Nor  saw  she  more  those  women  bent  with  pain 
Over  their  weaving,  or  the  fallen  ass, 
But  swiftly  up  the  gray  road  did  she  pass 
And  wellnigh  now  was  come  into  the  day 
By  hollow  Toenarus,  but  o'er  the  way 
The  wings  of  Envy  brooded  all  unseen  ; 
Because  indeed  the  cruel  and  fair  Queen 
Knew  well  how  she  had  sped  ;  so  in  her  breast, 
Against  the  which  the  dreadful  box  was  pressed, 
Grew  up  at  last  this  foolish,  harmful  thought 

"  Behold  how  far  this  beauty  I  have  brought 
To  give  unto  my  bitter  enemy  ; 


276  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Might  I  not  still  a  very  goddess  be 

If  this  were  mine  which  goddesses  desire  ; 

Yea,  what  if  this  hold  swift  consuming  fire, 

Why  do  I  think  it  good  for  me  to  live, 

TRat  I  my  body  once  again  may  give 

Into  her  cruel  hands  —  come  death  !  come  life  ! 

And  give  me  end  to  all  the  bitter  strife  !  " 

Therewith  down  by  the  wayside  did  she  sit 
And  turned  the  box  round,  long  regarding  it ; 
But  at  the  last,  with  trembling  hands,  undid 
The  clasp,  and  fearfully  raised  up  the  lid  ; 
But  what  was  there  she  saw  not,  for  her  head 
Fell  back,  and  nothing  she  remembered 
Of  all  her  life,  yet  naught  of  rest  she  had, 
The  hope  of  which  makes  hapless  mortals  glad  ; 
For  while  her  limbs  were  sunk  in  deadly  sleep 
Most  like  to  death,  over  her  heart  'gan  creep 
111  dreams  ;  so  that  for  fear  and  great  distress 
She  would  have  cried,  but  in  her  helplessness 
Could  open  not  her  mouth,  or  frame  a  word  ; 
Although  the  threats  of  mocking  things  she  heard, 
And  seemed,  amidst  new  forms  of  horror  bound, 
To  watch  strange  endless  armies  moving  round, 
With  all  their  sleepless  eyes  still  fixed  on  her, 
Who  from  that  changeless  place  should  never  stir. 
Moveless  she  lay,  and  in  that  dreadful  sleep 
Scarce  had  the  strength  some  few  slow  tears  to  weep. 

And  there  she  would  have  lain  forevermore, 
A  marble  image  on  the  shadowy  shore 
In  outward  seeming,  but  within  oppressed 
With  torments,  knowing  neither  hope  nor  rest ; 
But,  as  she  lay,  the  Phoenix  flew  along 
Going  to  Egypt,  and  knew  all  her  wrong, 
And  pitied  her,  beholding  her  sweet  face, 
And  flew  to  Love  and  told  him  of  her  case ; 
And  Love  in  guerdon  of  the  tale  he  told, 
Changed  all  the  feathers  of  his  neck  to  gold, 
And  he  flew  on  to  Egypt  glad  at  heart. 
But  Love  himself  gat  swiftly  for  his  part 
To  rocky  Tsenarus,  and  found  her  there 
Laid  half  a  furlong  from  the  outer  air. 

But  at  that  sight  out  burst  the  smothered  flame 
Of  love,  when  he  remembered  all  her  shame, 
The  stripes,  the  labor,  and  the  wretched  fear, 


STORY  OF  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE.         277 

And  kneeling  down  he  whispered  in  her  ear, 
"  Rise,  Psyche,  and  be  mine  forevermore, 
For  evil  is  long  tarrying  on  this  shore. " 
Then  when  she  heard  him,  straightway  she  arose, 
And  from  her  fell  the  burden  of  her  woes  ; 
And  yet  her  heart  within  her  wellnigh  broke, 
When  she  from  grief  to  happiness  awoke  ; 
And  loud  her  sobbing  was  in  that  gray  place, 
And  with  sweet  shame  she  covered  up  her  face. 

But  her  dear  hands,  all  wet  with  tears,  he  kissed, 
And  taking  them  about  each  little  wrist 
Drew  them  away,  and  in  a  sweet  voice  said, 
"  Raise  up  again,  O  Psyche,  that  dear  head, 
And  of  thy  simpleness  have  no  more  shame  ; 
Thou  hast  been  tried,  and  cast  away  all  blame 
Into  the  sea  of  woes  that  thou  didst  bear, 
The  bitter  pain,  the  hopelessness,  the  fear,  — 
Holpen  a  little,  loved  with  boundless  love 
Amidst  them  all,  —  but  now  the  shadows  move 
Fast  toward  the  west,  earth's  day  is  wellnigh  done, 
One  toil  thou  hast  yet ;  by  to-morrow's  sun 
Kneel  the  last  time  before  my  mother's  feet, 
Thy  task  accomplished  ;  and  my  heart,  O  sweet, 
Shall  go  with  thee  to  ease  thy  toilsome  way : 
Farewell  awhile  !  but  that  so  glorious  day 
I  promised  thee  of  old,  now  cometh  fast, 
When  even  hope  thy  soul  aside  shall  cast 
Amidst  the  joy  that  thou  shall  surely  win." 

So  saying,  all  that  sleep  he  shut  within 
The  dreadful  casket,  and  aloft  he  flew, 
But  slowly  she  unto  the  cavern  drew 
Scarce  knowing  if  she  dreamed,  and  so  she  came 
Unto  the  earth  where  yet  the  sun  did  flame 
Low  down  between  the  pine-trunks,  tall  and  red, 
And  with  its  last  beams  kissed  her  golden  head. 


WITH  what  words  Love  unto  the  Father  prayed 
I  know  not,  nor  what  deeds  the  balance  weighed ; 
But  this  I  know,  that  he  prayed  not  in  vain, 
And  Psyche's  life  the  heavenly  crown  shall  gain ; 
So  round  about  the  messenger  was  sent 
To  tell  immortals  of  their  King's  intent, 
And  bid  them  gather  to  the  Father's  hall. 


278  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

But  while  they  got  them  ready  at  his  call, 
On  through  the  night  was  Psyche  toiling  still, 
To  whom  no  pain  nor  weariness  seemed  ill 
Since  now  once  more  she  knew  herself  beloved  ; 
But  when  the  unresting  world  again  had  moved 
Round  into  golden  day-,  she  came  again 
To  that  fair  place  where  she  had  borne  such  pain, 
And  flushed  and  joyful  in  despite  her  fear, 
Unto  the  goddess  did  she  draw  anear, 
And  knelt  adown  before  her  golden  seat, 
Laying  the  fatal  casket  at  her  feet : 
Then  at  the  first  no  word  the  Sea-born  said, 
But  looked  afar  over  her  golden  head, 
Pondering  upon  the  mighty  deeds  of  fate  ; 
While  Psyche  still,  as  one  who  well  may  wait, 
Knelt,  calm  and  motionless,  nor  said  a  word, 
But  ever  thought  of  her  sweet  lovesome  lord. 

At  last  the  Queen  said,  "Girl,  I  bid  thee  rise, 
For  now  hast  thou  found  favor  in  mine  eyes ; 
And  I  repent  me  of  the  misery 
That  in  this  place  thou  hast  endured  of  me, 
Although  because  of  it  thy  joy  indeed 
Shall  now  be  more,  that  pleasure  is  thy  meed." 

Then  bending,  on  the  forehead  did  she  kiss 
Fair  Psyche,  who  turned  red  for  shame  and  bliss  ; 
But  Venus  smiled  again  on  her,  and  said, 
"  Go  now,  and  bathe,  and  be  as  well  arrayed 
As  thou  shouldst  be,  to  sit  beside  my  son  ; 
I  think  thy  life  on  earth  is  wellnigh  done. " 

So  thence  once  more  was  Psyche  led  away, 
And  cast  into  no  prison  on  that  day, 
But  brought  unto  a  bath  beset  with  flowers, 
Made  dainty  with  a  fount's  sweet-smelling  showers, 
And  there  being  bathed,  e'en  in  such  fair  attire 
As  veils  the  glorious  Mother  of  Desire 
Her  limbs  were  veiled,  then  in  the  wavering  shade, 
Amidst  the  sweetest  garden  was  she  laid, 
And  while  the  damsels  round  her  watch  did  keep, 
At  last  she  closed  her  weary  eyes  in  sleep. 
And  woke  no  more  to  earth,  for  ere  the  day 
Had  yet  grown  late,  once  more  asleep  she  lay 
Within  the  West  Wind's  mighty  arms,  nor  woke 
Until  the  light  of  heaven  upon  her  broke, 
And  on  her  trembling  lips  she  felt  the  kiss 
Of  very  Love,  and  mortal  yet,  for  bliss 


STORY  OF  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE.         279 

Must  fall  a  weeping  still.     Ah,  me  !  that  I, 
Who  late  have  told  her  woe  and  misery, 
Must  leave  untold  the  joy  unspeakable 
That  on  her  tender  wounded  spirit  fell ! 
Alas  !  I  try  to  think  of  it  in  vain, 
My  lyre  is  but  attuned  to  tears  and'  pain, 
How  shall  I  sing  the  never-ending  day  ? 

Led  by  the  hand  of  Love  she  took  her  way 
Unto  a  vale  beset  with  heavenly  trees, 
Where  all  the  gathered  gods  and  goddesses 
Abode  her  coming  ;  but  when  Psyche  saw 
The  Father's  face,  she  fainting  with  her  awe 
Had  fallen,  but  that  Love's  arm  held  her  up. 

Then  brought  the  cupbearer  a  golden  cup, 
And  gently  set  it  in  her  slender  hand, 
And  while  in  dread  and  wonder  she  did  stand, 
The  Father's  awful  voice  smote  on  her  ear, 
"  Drink  now,  O  beautiful,  and  have  no  fear  ! 
For  with  this  draught  shalt  thou  be  born  again, 
And  live  forever  free  from  care  and  pain." 

Then,  pale  as  privet,  took  she  heart  to  drink, 
And  therewithal  most  strange  new  thoughts  did  think, 
And  unknown  feelings  seized  her,  and  there  came 
Sudden  remembrance,  vivid  as  a  flame, 
Of  everything  that  she  had  done  on  earth, 
Although  it  all  seemed  changed  in  weight  and  worth, 
Small  things  becoming  great,  and  great  things  small ; 
And  godlike  pity  touched  her  therewithal 
For  her  old  self,  for  sons  of  men  that  die ; 
And  that  sweet  new-born  immortality 
Now  with  full  love  her  rested  spirit  fed. 

Then  in  that  concourse  did  she  lift  her  head, 
And  stood  at  last  a  very  goddess  there, 
And  all  cried  out  at  seeing  her  grown  so  fair. 

So  while  in  heaven  quick  passed  the  time  away, 
About  the  ending  of  that  lovely  day, 
Bright  shone  the  low  sun  over  all  the  earth 
For  joy  of  such  a  wonderful  new  birth. 


28o  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 


OR  e'er  his  tale  was  done,  night  held  the  earth ; 
Yea,  the  brown  bird  grown  bold,  as  sounds  of  mirth 
Grew  faint  and  scanty,  now  his  tale  had  done, 
And  by  his  mate  abode  the  next  day's  sun  ; 
And  in  those  old  hearts  did  the  story  move 
Remembrance  of  the  mighty  deeds  of  love, 
And  with  these  thoughts  did  hopes  of  life  arise, 
Till  tears  unseen  were  in  their  ancient  eyes, 
And  in  their  yearning  hearts  unspoken  prayers, 
And  idle  seemed  the  world  with  all  its  cares. 

Few  words  they  said  ;  the  balmy  odorous  wind 
Wandered  about,  some  resting-place  to  find  ; 
The  young  leaves  rustled  'neath  its  gentle  breath, 
And  here  and  there  some  blossom  burst  his  sheath, 
Adding  unnoticed  fragrance  to  the  night ; 
But,  as  they  pondered,  a  new  golden  light 
Streamed  over  the  green  garden,  and  they  heard 
Sweet  voices  sing  some  ancient  poet's  word 
In  praise  of  May,  and  then  in  sight  there  came 
The  minstrels'  figures  underneath  the  flame 
Of  scented  torches  passing  'twixt  the  trees, 
And  soon  the  dusky  hall  grew  bright  with  these, 
And  therewithal  they  put  all  thought  away, 
And  midst  the  tinkling  harps  drank  deep  to  May. " 


r  I  ""HROUGH  many  changes  had  the  May-tide  passed, 

J_     The  hope  of  summer  oft  had  been  o'ercast, 
Ere  midst  the  gardens  they  once  more  were  met ; 
But  now  the  full-leaved  trees  might  well  forget 
The  changeful  agony  of  doubtful  spring, 
For  summer  pregnant  with  so  many  a  thing 
Was  at  the  door ;  right  hot  had  been  the  day 
Which  they  amid  the  trees  had  passed  away, 
And  now  betwixt  the  tulip-beds  they  went 
Unto  the  hall,  and  thoughts  of  days  long  spent 
Gathered  about  them,  as  some  blossom's  smell 
Unto  their  hearts  familiar  tales  did  tell. 

But  when  they  well  were  settled  in  the  hall, 
And  now  behind  the  trees  the  sun  'gan  fall, 
And  they  as  yet  no  history  had  heard, 


MAY. 

Laurence,  the  Swabian  priest,  took  up  the  word, 

And  said,  "  Ye  know  from  what  has  gone  before, 

That  in  my  youth  I  followed  mystic  lore, 

And  many  books  I  read  in  seeking  it, 

And  through  my  memory  this  same  eve  doth  flit 

A  certain  tale  I  found  in  one  of  these, 

Long  ere  mine  eyes  had  looked  upon  the  seas  ; 

It  made  me  shudder  in  the  times  gone  by, 

When  I  believed  in  many  a  mystery 

I  thought  divine,  that  now  I  think,  forsooth, 

Men's  own  fears  made,  to  fill  the  place  of  truth 

Within  their  foolish  hearts  ;  short  is  the  tale, 

And  therefore  will  the  better  now  avail 

To  fill  the  space  before  the  night  comes  on, 

And  unto  rest  once  more  the  world  is  won. 


THE.  WRITING  ON  THE  IMAGE. 


ARGUMENT. 

How  on  an  Image  that  stood  anciently  in  Rome  were  written  certain 
words,  which  none  understood,  until  a  scholar,  coming  there,  knew  their 
meaning,  and  thereby  discovered  great  marvels,  but  withal  died  miser 
ably. 

IN  half-forgotten  days  of  old, 
As  by  our  fathers  we  were  told, 
Within  the  town  of  Rome  there  stood 
An  image  cut  of  cornel-wood, 
And  on  the  upraised  hand  of  it 
Men  might  behold  these  letters  writ  — 
"  PERCUTE  HIC  "  :  which  is  to  say, 
In  that  tongue  that  we  speak  to-day, 
"Strike  here !"  nor  yet  did  any  know 
The  cause  why  this  was  written  so. 

Thus  in  the  middle  of  the  square, 
In  the  hot  sun  and  summer  air, 
The  snow-drift  and  the  driving  rain, 
That  image  stood,  with  little  pain, 
For  twice  a  hundred  years  and  ten  ; 
While  many  a  band  of  striving  men 
Were  driven  betwixt  woe  and  mirth 
Swiftly  across  the  weary  earth, 
From  nothing  unto  dark  nothing : 
And  many  an  Emperor  and  King, 
Passing  with  glory  or  with  shame, 
Left  little  record  of  his  name, 
And  no  remembrance  of  the  face 
Once  watched  with  awe  for  gifts  or  grace. 

Fear  little,  then,  I  counsel  you, 
What  any  son  of  man  can  do ; 
Because  a  log  of  wood  will  last 
While  many  a  life  of  man  goes  past, 
And  all  is  over  in  short  space. 


THE    WRITING   ON  THE  IMAGE.          283 

Now  so  it  chanced  that  to  this  place 
There  came  a  man  of  Sicily, 
Who,  when  the  image  he  did  see, 
Knew  full  well  who,  in  days  of  yore, 
Had  set  it  there  ;  for  much  strange  lore, 
In  Egypt  and  in  Babylon, 
This  man  with  painful  toil  had  won  ; 
And  many  secret  things  could  do  ; 
So  verily  full  well  he  knew 
That  master  of  all  sorcery 
Who  wrought  the  thing  in  days  gone  by, 
And  doubted  not  that  some  great  spell 
It  guarded,  but  could  nowise  tell 
What  it  might  be.     So,  day  by  day, 
Still  would  he  loiter  on  the  way, 
And  watch  the  image  carefully, 
Well  mocked  of  many  a  passer-by. 

And  on  a  day  he  stood  and  gazed 
Upon  the  slender  finger,  raised 
Against  a  doubtful  cloudy  sky, 
Nigh  noontide  ;  and  thought,  "  Certainly 
The  master  who  made  thee  so  fair 
By  wondrous  art,  had  not  stopped  there, 
But  made  thee  speak,  had  he  not  thought 
That  thereby  evil  might  be  brought 
Upon  his  spell."     But  as  he  spoke, 
From  out  a  cloud  the  noon  sun  broke 
With  wateiy  light,  and  shadows  cold  : 
Then  did  the  Scholar  well  behold 
How,  from  that  finger  carved  to  tell 
Those  words,  a  short  black  shadow  fell 
Upon  a  certain  spot  of  ground, 
And  thereon,  looking  all  around 
And  seeing  none  heeding,  went  straightway 
Whereas  the  finger's  shadow  lay, 
And  with  his  knife  about  the  place 
A  little  circle  did  he  trace  ; 
Then  home  he  turned  with  throbbing  head, 
And  forthright  gat  him  to  his  bed, 
And  slept  until  the  night  was  late 
And  few  men  stirred  from  gate  to  gate. 

So  when  at  midnight  he  did  wake, 
Pickaxe  and  shovel  did  he  take, 
And,  going  to  that  now  silent  square, 
He  found  the  mark  his  knife  made  there, 
And  quietly  with  many  a  stroke 


284  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

The  pavement  of  the  place  he  broke  : 
And  so,  the  stones  being  set  apart, 
He  'gan  to  dig  with  beating  heart, 
And  from  the  hole  in  haste  he  cast 
The  marl  and  gravel  ;  till  at  last, 
Full  shoulder  high,  his  arms  were  jarred, 
For  suddenly  his  spade  struck  hard 
With  clang  against  some  metal  thing : 
And  soon  he  found  a  brazen  ring, 
All  green  with  rust,  twisted,  and  great 
As  a  man's  wrist,  set  in  a  plate 
Of  copper,  wrought  all  curiously 
With  words  unknown  though  plain  to  see 
Spite  of  the  rust ;  and  flowering  trees, 
And  beasts,  and  wicked  images, 
Whereat  he  shuddered  ;  for  he  knew 
What  ill  things  he  might  come  to  do, 
If  he  should  still  take  part  with  these 
And  that  Great  Master  strive  to  please. 

But  small  time  had  he  then  to  stand 
And  think,  so  straight  he  set  his  hand 
Unto  the  ring,  but  where  he  thought 
That  by  main  strength  it  must  be  brought 
From  out  its  place,  lo  !  easily 
It  came  away,  and  let  him  see 
A  winding  staircase  wrought  of  stone, 
Wherethrough  the  new-come  wind  did  moan. 

Then  thought  he,  "  If  I  come  alive 
From  out  this  place  well  shall  I  thrive, 
For  I  may  look  here  certainly 
The  treasures  of  a  king  to  see, 
A  mightier  man  than  men  are  now. 
So  in  few  days  what  man  shall  know 
The  needy  Scholar,  seeing  me 
Great  in  the  place  where  great  men  be, 
The  richest  man  in  all  the  land  ? 
Beside  the  best  then  shall  I  stand, 
And  some  unheard-of  palace  have  ; 
And  if  my  soul  I  may  not  save 
In  heaven,  yet  here  in  all  men's  eyes 
Will  I  make  some  sweet  paradise, 
With  marble  cloisters,  and  with  trees 
And  bubbling  wells,  and  fantasies, 
And  things  all  men  deem  strange  and  rare, 
And  crowds  of  women  kind  and  fair, 
That  I  may  see,  if  so  I  please, 


THE    WRITING  ON  THE  IA1AGE.          285 

Laid  on  the  flowers,  or  mid  the  trees 
With  half-clad  bodies  wandering. 
There,  dwelling  happier  than  the  King, 
What  lovely  days  may  yet  be  mine ! 
How  shall  I  live  with  love  and  wine, 
And  music,  till  I  come  to  die  ! 
And  then  —  Who  knoweth  certainly 
What  haps  to  us  when  we  are  dead  ? 
Truly  I  think  by  likelihead 
Naught  haps  to  us  of  good  or  bad  ; 
Therefore  on  earth  will  I  be  glad 
A  short  space,  free  from  hope  or  fear ; 
And  fearless  will  I  enter  here 
And  meet  my  fate,  whatso  it  be." 

Now  on  his  back  a  bag  had  he, 
To  bear  what  treasure  he  might  win, 
And  therewith  now  did  he  begin 
To  go  adown  the  winding  stair ; 
And  found  the  walls  all  painted  fair    • 
With  images  of  many  a  thing, 
Warrior  and  priest,  and  queen  and  king, 
But  nothing  knew  what  they  might  be. 
Which  things  full  clearly  could  he  see, 
For  lamps  were  hung  up  here  and  there 
Of  strange  device,  but  wrought  right  fair, 
And  pleasant  savor  came  from  them. 

At  last  a  curtain,  on  whose  hem 
Unknown  words  in  red  gold  were  writ, 
He  reached,  and  softly  raising  it 
Stepped  back,  for  now  did  he  behold 
A  goodly  hall  hung  round  with  gold, 
And  at  the  upper  end  could  see 
Sitting,  a  glorious  company  : 
Therefore  he  trembled,  thinking  well 
They  were  no  men,  but  fiends  of  hell. 
But  while  he  waited,  trembling  sore, 
And  doubtful  of  his  late-learned  lore, 
A  cold  blast  of  the  outer  air 
Blew  out  the  lamps  upon  the  stair 
And  all  was  dark  behind  him  ;  then 
Did  he  fear  less  to  face  those  men 
Than,  turning  round,  to  leave  them  there 
While  he  went  groping  up  the  stair. 
Yea,  since  he  heard  no  cry  or  call 
Or  any  speech  from  them  at  all, 


286  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

He  doubted  they  were  images 

Set  there  some  dying  king  to  please 

By  that  Great  Master  of  the  art  ; 

Therefore  at  last  with  stouter  heart 

He  raised  the  cloth  and  entered  in 

In  hope  that  happy  life  to  win, 

And  drawing  nigher  did  behold 

That  these  were  bodies  dead  and  cold 

Attired  in  full  royal  guise, 

And  wrought  by  art  in  such  a  wise 

That  living  they  all  seemed  to  be, 

Whose  very  eyes  he  well  could  see, 

That  now  beheld  not  foul  or  fair, 

Shining  as  though  alive  they  were. 

And  midmost  of  that  company 

An  ancient  king  that  man  could  see, 

A  mighty  man,  whose  beard  of  gray 

A  foot  over  his  gold  gown  lay  ; 

And  next  beside  him  sat  his  queen 

Who  in  a  flowery  gown  of  green 

And  golden  mantle  well  was  clad, 

And  on  her  neck  a  collar  had 

Too  heavy  for  her  dainty  breast ; 

Her  loins  by  such  a  belt  were  pressed 

That  whoso  in  his  treasury 

Held  that  alone,  a  king  might  be. 

On  either  side  of  these,  a  lord  , 

Stood  heedfully  before  the  board, 

And  in  their  hands  held  bread  and  wine 

For  service ;  behind  these  did  shine 

The  armor  of  the  guards,  and  then 

The  well-attired  serving-men, 

The  minstrels  clad  in  raiment  meet ; 

And  over  against  the  royal  seat 

Was  hung  a  lamp,  although  no  flame 

Was  burning  there,  but  there  was  set 

Within  its  open  golden  fret 

A  huge  carbuncle,  red  and  bright ; 

Wherefrom  there  shone  forth  such  a  light 

That  great  hall  was  as  clear  by  it, 

As  though  by  wax  it  had  been  lit, 

As  some  great  church  at  Easter-tide. 

Now  set  a  little  way  aside, 
Six  paces  from  the  dais  stood 
An  image  made  of  brass  and  wood, 
In  likeness  of  a  full-armed  knight 


THE    WRITING   ON  THE  IMAGE.         287 

Who  pointed  'gainst  the  ruddy  light 
A  huge  shaft  ready  in  a  bow. 

Pondering  how  he  could  come  to  know 
What  all  these  marvellous  matters  meant, 
About  the  hall  the  Scholar  went, 
Trembling,  though  nothing  moved  as  yet ; 
And  for  a  while  did  he  forget 
The  longings  that  had  brought  him  there 
In  wondering  at  these  marvels  fair ; 
And  still  for  fear  he  doubted  much 
One  jewel  of  their  robes  to  touch. 

But  as  about  the  hall  he  passed 
He  grew  more  used  to  them  at  last, 
And  thought,  "Swiftly  the  time  goes  by, 
And  now  no  doubt  the  day  draws  nigh 
Folk  will  be  stirring  ;  by  my  head 
A  fool  I  am  to  fear  the  dead, 
Who  have  seen  living  things  enow, 
Whose  very  names  no  man  can  know, 
Whose  shapes  brave  men  might  well  affright 
More  than  the  lion  in  the  night 
Wandering  for  food  "  ;  therewith  he  drew 
Unto  those  royal  corpses  two, 
That  on  dead  brows  still  wore  the  crown ; 
And  midst  the  golden  cups  set  down 
The  rugged  wallet  from  his  back, 
Patched  of  strong  leather,  brown  and  black. 
Then,  opening  wide  its  mouth,  took  up 
From  off  the  board,  a  golden  cup 
The  King's  dead  hand  was  laid  upon, 
Whose  unmoved  eyes  upon  him  shone 
And  recked  no  more  of  that  last  shame 
Than  if  he  were  the  beggar  lame, 
Who  in  old  days  was  wont  to  wait 
For  a  dog's  meal  beside  the  gate. 

Of  which  shame  naught  our  man  did  reck, 
But  laid  his  hand  upon  the  neck 
Of  the  slim  Queen,  and  thence  undid 
The  jewelled  collar,  that  straight  slid 
Down  her  smooth  bosom  to  the  board. 
And  when  these  matters  he  had  stored 
Safe  in  his  sack,  with  both  their  crowns, 
The  jewelled  parts  of  their  rich  gowns, 
Their  shoes  and  belts,  brooches  and  rings, 
And  cleared  the  board  of  all  rich  things, 


288  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

He  staggered  with  them  down  the  hall. 
But  as  he  went  his  eyes  did  fall 
Upon  a  wonderful  green  stone, 
Upon  the  hall-floor  laid  alone ; 
He  said,  "  Though  thou  art  not  eo  great 
To  add  by  much  unto  the  weight 
Of  this  my  sack  indeed,  yet  thou, 
Certes,  would  make  me  rich  enow, 
That  verily  with  thee  I  might 
Wage  one  half  of  the  world  to  fight 
The  other  half  of  it,  and  I 
The  lord  of  all  the  world  might  die  ;  — 
I  will  not  leave  thee  "  ;  therewithal 
He  knelt  down  midmost  of  the  hall, 
Thinking  it  would  come  easily 
Into  his  hand  j  but  when  that  he 
Gat  hold  of  it,  full  fast  it  stack, 
So  fuming,  down  he  laid  his  sack, 
And  with  both  hands  pulled  lustily, 
But  as  he  strained,  he  cast  his  eye 
Unto  the  dais,  and  saw  there 
The  image  who  the  great  bow  bare 
Moving  the  bowstring  to  his  ear, 
So,  shrieking  out  aloud  for  fear, 
Of  that  rich  stone  he  loosed  his  hold 
And  catching  up  his  bag  of  gold, 
Gat  to  his  feet :  but  ere  he  stood, 
The  evil  thing  of  brass  and  wood 
Up  to  his  ear  the  notches  drew ; 
And  clanging  forth  the  arrow  flew, 
And  midmost  of  the  carbuncle 
Clanging  again,  the  forked  barbs  fell, 
And  all  was  dark  as  pitch  straightway. 

So  there  until  the  judgment  day 
Shall  come  and  find  his  bones  laid  low, 
And  raise  them  up  for  weal  or  woe, 
This  man  must  bide ;  cast  down  he  lay 
While  all  his  past  life  day  by  day 
In  one  short  moment  he  could  see 
Drawn  out  before  him,  while  that  he 
In  terror  by  that  fatal  stone 
Was  laid,  and  scarcely  dared  to  moan. 
But  in  a  while  his  hope  returned, 
And  then,  though  nothing  he  discerned, 
He  gat  him  up  upon  his  feet, 


THE    WRITING   ON  THE  IMAGE.          289 

And  all  about  the  walls  he  beat 
To  find  some  token  of  the  door, 
But  never  could  he  find  it  more, 
For  by  some  dreadful  sorcery 
All  was  sealed  close  as  it  might  be, 
And  midst  the  marvels  of  that  hall 
This  Scholar  found  the  end  of  all. 

But  in  the  town  on  that  same  night, 
An  hour  before  the  dawn  of  light, 
Such  storm  upon  the  place  there  fell, 
That  not  the  oldest  man  could  tell 
Of  such  another  :  and  thereby 
The  image  was  burnt  utterly, 
Being  stricken  from  the  clouds  above  ; 
And  folk  deemed  that  same  bolt  did  move 
The  pavement  where  that  wretched  one 
Unto  his  foredoomed  fate  had  gone, 
Because  the  plate  was  set  again 
Into  its  place,  and  the  great  rain 
Washed  the  earth  down,  and  sorcery 
Had  hid  the  place  where  it  did  lie. 

So  soon  the  stones  were  set  all  straight, 
But  yet  the  folk,  afraid  of  fate, 
Where  once  the  man  of  cornel-wood 
Through  many  a  year  of  bad  and  good 
Had  kept  his  place,  set  up  alone 
Great  Jove  himself,  cut  in  white  stone, 
But  thickly  overlaid  with  gold. 
"  Which,"  saith  my  tale,  "you  may  behold 
Unto  this  day,  although  indeed 
Some  lord  or  other,  being  in  need, 
Took  every  ounce  of  gold  away. " 

But  now,  this  tale  in  some  past  day 
Being  writ,  I  warrant  all  is  gone, 
Both  gold  and  weather-beaten  stone. 

Be  merry,  masters,  while  ye  may, 
For  men  much  quicker  pass  away. 


290  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 


praised  the  tale,  and  for  a  while  they  talked 
_     Of  other  tales  of  treasure-seekers  balked, 
And  shame  and  loss  for  men  insatiate  stored, 
Nitocris'  tomb,  the  Niflungs'  fatal  hoard, 
The  serpent-guarded  treasures  of  the  dead  ; 
Then  of  how  men  would  be  remembered 
When  they  are  gone  ;  and  more  than  one  could  tell 
Of  what  unhappy  things  therefrom  befell ; 
Or  how  by  folly  men  have  gained  a  name  — 
A  name  indeed,  not  hallowed  by  the  fame 
Of  any  deeds  remembered  ;  and  some  thought, 
"  Strange  hopes  and  fears  for  what  shall  be  but  naught 
To  dead  men  !  better  it  would  be  to  give 
What  things  they  may,  while  on  the  earth  they  live 
Unto  the  earth,  and  from  the  bounteous  earth 
To  take  their  pay  of  sorrow  or  of  mirth, 
Hatred  or  love,  and  get  them  on  their  way  ; 
And  let  the  teeming  earth  fresh  troubles  make 
For  other  men,  and  ever  for  their  sake 
Use  what  they  left,  when  they  are  gone  from  it. " 

But  while  amid  such  musings  they  did  sit, 
Dark  night  being  come,  men  lighted  up  the  hall, 
And  the  chief  man  for  minstrelsy  did  call, 
And  other  talk  their  dull  thoughts  chased  away, 
Nor  did  they  part  till  night  was  mixed  with  day. 


JUNE. 


OJUNE,  O  June,  that  we  desired  so, 
Wilt  thou  not  make  us  happy  on  this  day  ? 
Across  the  river  thy  soft  breezes  blow 
Sweet  with  the  scent  of  beanfields  far  away, 
Above  our  heads  rustle  the  aspens  gray, 
Calm  is  the  sky  with  harmless  clouds  beset, 
No  thought  of  storm  the  morning  vexes  yet 

See,  we  have  left  our  hopes  and  fears  behind 
To  give  our  very  hearts  up  unto  thee ; 
What  better  place  than  this  then  could  we  find 
By  this  sweet  stream  that  knows  not  of  the  sea, 
That  guesses  not  the  city's  misery, 
This  little  stream  whose  hamlets  scarce  have  names, 
This  far-off,  lonely  mother  of  the  Thames  ? 

Here  then,  O  June,  thy  kindness  will  we  take  ; 
And  if  indeed  but  pensive  men  we  seem, 
What  should  we  do  ?  thou  wouldst  not  have  us  wake 
From  out  the  arms  of  this  rare  happy  dream, 
And  wish  to  leave  the  murmur  of  the  stream, 
The  rustling  boughs,  the  twitter  of  the  birds, 
And  all  thy  thousand  peaceful  happy  words. 


NOW  in  the  early  June  they  deemed  it  good 
That  they  should  go  unto  a  house  that  stood 
On  their  chief  river,  so  upon  a  day 
With  favoring  wind  and  tide  they  took  their  way 
Up  the  fair  stream  ;  most  lovely  was  the  time 
Even  amidst  the  days  of  that  fair  clime, 
And  still  the  wanderers  thought  about  their  lives, 
And  that  desire  that  rippling  water  gives 
To  youthful  hearts  to  wander  anywhere. 

So  midst  sweet  sights  and  sounds  a  house  most  fair 
They  came  to,  set  upon  the  river-side 


292  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Where  kindly  folk  their  coming  did  abide  ; 

There  they  took  land,  and  in  the  lime-trees'  shade 

Beneath  the  trees  they  found  the  fair  feast  laid, 

And  sat,  well-pleased  ;  but  when  the  water-hen 

Had  got  at  last  to  think  them  harmless  men, 

And  they  with  rest,  and  pleasure,  and  old  wine, 

Began  to  feel  immortal  and  divine, 

An  elder  spoke,  "  O  gentle  friends,  the  day 

Amid  such  calm  delight  now  slips  away, 

And  ye  yourselves  are  grown  so  bright  and  glad, 

I  care  not  if  I  tell  you  something  sad  ; 

Sad,  though  the  life  I  tell  you  of  passed  by, 

Unstained  by  sordid  strife  or  misery  ; 

Sad,  because  though  a  glorious  end  it  tells 

Yet  on  the  end  of  glorious  life  it  dwells, 

And  striving  through  all  things  to  reach  the  best 

Upon  no  midway  happiness  will  rest. " 


THE  LOVE  OF  ALCESTIS. 


ARGUMENT. 

ADMETUS,  King  of  Pherse  in  Thessaly,  received  unwittingly  Apollo  as  his 
servant,  by  the  help  of  whom  he  won  to  wife  Alcestis,  daughter  of  Pe- 
lias  :  afterwards  too,  as  in  other  things,  so  principally  in  this,  Apollo 
gave  him  help,  that  when  he  came  to  die,  he  obtained  of  the  Fates  for 
him,  that  if  another  would  die  willingly  in  his  stead,  then  he  should  live 
still ;  and  when  to  every  one  else  this  seemed  impossible,  Alcestis  gave 
her  life  for  her  husband's. 

MIDST  sunny  grass-clad  meads  that  slope  adown 
To  Lake  Boebeis  stands  an  ancient  town, 
"Where  dwelt  of  old  a  lord  of  Thessaly, 
The  son  of  Pheres  and  fair  Clymene, 
Who  had  to  name  Admetus  :  long  ago 
The  dwellers  by  the  lake  have  ceased  to  know 
His  name,  because  the  world  grows  old,  but  then 
He  was  accounted  great  among  great  men  ; 
Young,  strong,  and  godlike,  lacking  naught  at  all 
Of  gifts  that  unto  royal  men  might  fall 
In  those  old  simple  days,  before  men  went 
To  gather  unseen  harm  and  discontent, 
Along  with  all  the  alien  merchandise 
That  rich  folk  need,  too  restless  to  be  wise. 

Now  on  the  fairest  of  all  autumn  eves, 
When  midst  the  dusty,  crumpled,  dying  leaves 
The  black  grapes  showed,  and  every  press  and  vat 
Was  newly  scoured,  this  King  Admetus  sat 
Among  his  people,  wearied  in  such  wise 
By  hopeful  toil  as  makes  a  paradise 
Of  the  rich  earth  ;  for  light  and  far  away 
Seemed  all  the  labor  of  the  coming  day, 
And  no  man  wished  for  more  than  then  he  had, 
Nor  with  another's  mourning  was  made  glad. 
There  in  the  pillared  porch,  their  supper  done, 
They  watched  the  fair  departing  of  the  sun ; 
The  while  the  soft-eyed  well-girt  maidens  poured 
The  joy  of  life  from  out  the  jars  long  stored 
Deep  in  the  earth,  while  little  like  a  king, 


294  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

As  we  call  kings,  but  glad  with  everything, 
The  wise  Thessalian  sat  and  blessed  his  life, 
So  free  from  sickening  fear  and  foolish  strife. 

But  midst  the  joy  of  this  festivity, 
Turning  aside  he  saw  a  man  draw  nigh, 
Along  the  dusty  gray  vine-bordered  road 
That  had  its  ending  at  his  fair  abode  ; 
He  seemed  e'en  from  afar  to  set  his  face 
Unto  the  King's  adorned  reverend  place, 
And  like  a  traveller  went  he  wearily, 
And  yet  as  one  who  seems  his  rest  to  see. 
A  staff  he  bore,  but  nowise  was  he  bent 
With  scrip  or  wallet ;  so  withal  he  went 
Straight  to  the  King's  high  seat,  and,  standing  near, 
Seemed  a  stout  youth  and  noble,  free  from  fear, 
But  peaceful  and  unarmed  ;  and  though  ill  clad, 
And  though  the  dust  of  that  hot  land  he  had 
Upon  his  limbs  and  face,  as  fair  was  he 
As  any  king's  son  you  might  lightly  see, 
Gray-eyed  and  crisp-haired,  beautiful  of  limb, 
And  no  ill  eye  the  women  cast  on  him. 

But  kneeling  now,  and  stretching  forth  his  hand, 
He  said,  "  O  thou,  the  King  of  this  fair  land, 
Unto  a  banished  man  some  shelter  give, 
And  help  me  with  thy  goods  that  I  may  live  : 
Thou  hast-  good  store,  Admetus,  yet  may  I, 
Who  kneel  before  thee  now  in  misery, 
Give  thee  more  gifts  before  the  end  shall  come 
Than  all  thou  hast  laid  safely  in  thy  home." 

"  Rise  up,  and  be  my  guest,"  Admetus  said, 
"  I  need  no  gifts  for  this  poor  gift  of  bread, 
The  land  is  wide  and  bountiful  enow. 
What  thou  canst  do,  to-morrow  thou  shalt  show, 
And  be  my  man,  perchance  ;  but  this  night  rest 
Not  questioned  more  than  any  passing  guest 
Yea,  even  if  a  great  king  thou  hast  spilt, 
Thou  shall  not  answer  aught  but  as  thou  wilt. " 

Then  the  man  rose  and  said,  "  O  King,  indeed 
Of  thine  awarded  silence  have  I  need, 
Nameless  I  am,  nameless  what  I  have  clone 
Must  be  through  many  circles  of  the  sun. 
But  for  to-morrow  —  let  me  rather  tell 
On  this  same  eve  what  things  I  can  do  well, 
And  let  me  put  mine  hand  in  thine  and  swear 
To  serve  thee  faithfully  a  changing  year  ; 
Nor  think  the  woods  of  Ossa  hold  one  beast 


THE  LOVE   OF  ALCESTIS.  295 

That  of  thy  tenderest  yearling  shall  make  feast, 
Whiles  that  I  guard  thy  flocks,  and  thou  shalt  bear 
Thy  troubles  easier  when  thou  com'st  to  hear 
The  music  I  can  make.     Let  these  thy  men 
Witness  against  me  if  I  fail  thee,  when 
War  falls  upon  thy  lovely  land  and  thee. " 

Then  the  King  smiled,  and  said,  "  So  let  it  be, 
Well  shalt  thou  serve  me,  doing  far  less  than  this, 
Nor  for  thy  service  due  gifts  shalt  thou  miss  : 
Behold  I  take  thy  faith  with  thy  right  hand, 
Be  thou  true  man  unto  this  guarded  land. 
Ho  ye  !  take  this  my  guest,  find  raiment  meet 
To  clad  him  with,  and  bathe  his  wearied  feet, 
Then  bring  him  back  beside  my  throne  to  feast " 

But  to  himself  he  said,  "  I  am  the  least 
Of  all  Thessalians  if  this  man  was  born 
In  any  earthly  dwelling  more  forlorn 
Than  a  king's  palace. " 

Then  a  damsel  slim 

Let  him  inside,  naught  loath  to  go  with  him, 
And  when  the  cloud  of  steam  had  curled  to  meet 
Within  the  brass  his  wearied  dusty  feet, 
She  from  a  carved  press  brought  him  linen  fair, 
And  a  new-woven  coat  a  king  might  wear, 
And  so  being  clad  he  came  unto  the  feast, 
But  as  he  came  again,  all  people  ceased 
What  talk  they  held  soever,  for  they  thought 
A  very  god  among  them  had  been  brought ; 
And  doubly  glad  the  King  Admetus  was 
At  what  that  dying  eve  had  brought  to  pass, 
And  bade  him  sit  by  him  and  feast  his  fill. 

So  there  they  sat  till  all  the  world  was  still, 
And  'twixt  the  pillars  their  red  torches'  shine 
Held  forth  unto  the  night  a  joyous  sign. 


SO  henceforth  did  this  man  at  Pherse  dwell, 
And  what  he  set  his  hand  to  wrought  right  well, 
And  won  much  praise  and  love  in  everything, 
And  came  to  rule  all  herdsmen  of  the  King ; 
But  for  two  things  in  chief  his  fame  did  grow ; 
And  first  that  he  was  better  with  the  bow 
Than  any  'twixt  Olympus  and  the  sea, 
And  then  that  swe^t,  heart-piercing  melody 


296  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

He  'drew  out  from  the  rigid-seeming  lyre, 

And  made  the  circle  round  the  winter  fire 

More  like  to  heaven  than  gardens  of  the  May. 

So  many  a  heavy  thought  he  chased  away 

From  the  King's  heart,  and  softened  many  a  hate, 

And  choked  the  spring  of  many  a  harsh  debate ; 

And,  taught  by  wounds,  the  snatchers  of  the  wolds 

Lurked  round  the  gates  of  less  well-guarded  folds. 

Therefore  Admetus  loved  him,  yet  withal, 

Strange  doubts  and  fears  upon  his  heart  did  fall  ; 

For  morns  there  were  when  he  the  man  would  meet, 

His  hair  wreathed  round  with  bay  and  blossoms  sweet, 

Gazing  distraught  into  the  brightening  east, 

Nor  taking  heed  of  either  man  or  beast, 

Or  anything  that  was  upon  the  earth. 

Or  sometimes  midst  the  hottest  of  the  mirth, 

Within  the  King's  hall,  would  he  seem  to  wake 

As  from  a  dream,  and  his  stringed  tortoise  take 

And  strike  the  chords  unbidden,  till  the  hall 

Filled  with  the  glorious  sound  from  wall  to  wall, 

Trembled  and  seemed  as  it  would  melt  away, 

And  sunken  down  the  faces  weeping  lay 

That  erewhile  laughed  the  loudest ;  only  he 

Stood  upright,  looking  forward  steadily 

With  sparkling  eyes  as  one  who  cannot  weep, 

Until  the  storm  of  music  sank  to  sleep. 

But  this  thing  seemed  the  doubtfullest  of  all 
Unto  the  King,  that  should  there  chance  to  fall 
A  festal  day,  and  folk  did  sacrifice 
Unto  the  gods,  ever  by  some  device 
The  man  would  be  away  :  yet  with  all  this 
His  presence  doubled  all  Admetus'  bliss, 
And  happy  in  all  things  he  seemed  to  live, 
And  great  gifts  to  his  herdsman  did  he  give. 

But  now  the  year  came  round  again  to  spring, 
And  southward  to  lolchos  went  the  King ; 
For  there  did  Pelias  hold  a  sacrifice 
Unto  the  gods,  and  put  forth  things  of  price 
For  men  to  strive  for  in  the  people's  sight ; 
So  on  a  morn  of  April,  fresh  and  bright, 
Admetus  shook  the  golden-studded  reins, 
And  soon  from  windings  of  the  sweet-banked  lanes 
The  south  wind  blew  the  sound  of  hoof  and  wheel, 
Clatter  of  brazen  shields  and  clink  of  steel 


THE  LOVE  OF  ALCESTIS.  297 

Unto  the  herdsman's  ears,  who  stood  awhile 
Hearkening  the  echoes  with  a  godlike  smile, 
Then  slowly  gat  him  foldwards,  murmuring, 
"  Fair  music  for  the  wooing  of  a  King." 

But  in  six  days  again  Admetus  came, 
With  no  lost  labor  or  dishonored  name  ; 
A  scarlet  cloak  upon  his  back  he  bare, 
A  gold  crown  on  his  head,  a  falchion  fair 
Girt  to  his  side  ;  behind  him  four  white  steeds, 
Whose  dams  had  fed  full  in  Nissean  meads  ; 
All  prizes  that  his  valiant  hands  had  won 
Within  the  guarded  lists  of  Tyro's  son. 
Yet  midst  the  sound  of  joyous  minstrelsy 
No  joyous  man  in  truth  he  seemed  to  be ; 
So  that  folk  looking  on  him  said,  "  Behold, 
The  wise  King  will  not  show  himself  too  bold 
Amidst  his  greatness  :  the  gods  too  are  great, 
And  who  can  tell  the  dreadful  ways  of  fate." 

Howe'er  it  was,  he  gat  him  through  the  town, 
And  midst  their  shouts  at  last  he  lighted  down 
At  his  own  house,  and  held  high  feast  that  night ; 
And  yet  by  seeming  had  but  small  delight 
In  aught  that  any  man  could  do  or  say  : 
And  on  the  morrow,  just  at  dawn  of  day, 
Rose  up  and  clad  himself,  and  took  his  spear, 
And  in  the  fresh  and  blossom-scented  air 
Went  wandering  till  he  reached  Bcebeis'  shore  ; 
Yet  by  his  troubled  face  set  little  store 
By  all  the  songs  of  birds  and  scent  of  flowers ; 
Yea,  rather  unto  him  the  fragrant  hours 
Were  grown  but  dull  and  empty  of  delight. 

So  going,  at  the  last  he  came  in  sight 
Of  his  new  herdsman,  who  that  morning  lay 
Close  by  the  white  sand  of  a  little  bay 
The  teeming  ripple  of  Boebeis  lapped  ; 
There  he,  in  cloak  of  white- woolled  sheepskin  wrapped 
Against  the  cold  dew,  free  from  trouble  sang, 
The  while  the  heifers'  bells  about  him  rang 
And  mingled  with  the  sweet  soft-throated  birds 
And  bright  fresh  ripple  :  listen,  then,  these  words 
Will  tell  the  tale  of  his  felicity, 
Halting  and  void  of  music  though  they  be. 


THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 


SONG. 

O  DWELLERS  on  the  lovely  earth, 
Why  will  ye  break  your  rest  and  mirth 
To  weary  us  with  fruitless  prayer ; 
Why  will  ye  toil  and  take  such  care 
For  children's  children  yet  unborn, 
And  garner  store  of  strife  and  scorn 
To  gain  a  scarce-remembered  name, 
Cumbered  with  lies  and  soiled  with  shame  ? 
And  if  the  gods  care  not  for  you, 
What  is  this  folly  ye  must  do 
To  win  some  mortal's  feeble  heart  ? 
O  fools  !  when  each  man  plays  his  part, 
And  heeds  his  fellow  little  more 
Than  these  blue  waves  that  kiss  the  shore, 
Take  heed  of  how  the  daisies  grow. 
O  fools  !  and  if  ye  could  but  know 
How  fair  a  world  to  you  is  given. 

O  brooder  on  the  hills  of  heaven, 
When  for  my  sin  thou  drav'st  me  forth, 
Hadst  thou  forgot  what  this  was  worth, 
Thine  own  hand  made  ?     The  tears  of  men, 
The  death  of  threescore  years  and  ten, 
The  trembling  of  the  timorous  race,  — 
Had  these  things  so  bedimmed  the  place 
Thine  own  hand  made,  thou  couldst  not  know 
To  what  a  heaven  the  earth  might  grow 
If  fear  beneath  the  earth  were  laid, 
If  hope  failed  not,  nor  love  decayed. 

He  stopped,  for  he  beheld  his  wandering  lord, 
Who,  drawing  near,  heard  little  of  his  word, 
And  noted  less ;  for  in  that  haggard  mood 
Naught  could  he  do  but  o'er  his  sorrows  brood, 
Whate'er  they  were,  but  now  being  come  anigh, 
He  lifted  up  his  drawn  face  suddenly, 
And,  as  the  singer  gat  him  to  his  feet, 
His  eyes  Admetus'  troubled  eyes,  did  meet, 
As  with  some  speech  he  now  seemed  laboring, 
Which  from  his  heart  his  lips  refused  to  bring. 
Then  spoke  the  herdsman,  "  Master,  what  is  this, 
That  thou,  returned  with  honor  to  the  bliss 


THE  LOVE   OF  ALCESTIS.  299 

The  gods  have  given  thee  here,  still  makest  show 
To  be  some  wretch  bent  with  the  weight  of  woe  ? 
What  wilt  thou  have  ?     What  help  there  is  in  me 
Is  wholly  thine,  for  in  felicity 
Within  thine  house  thou  still  hast  let  me  live, 
Nor  grudged  most  noble  gifts  to  me  to  give. " 

"  Yea,"  said  Admetus,  "thou  canst  help  indeed, 
But  as  the  spring  shower  helps  the  unsown  mead. 
Yet  listen  :  at  lolchos  the  first  day 
Unto  Diana's  house  I  took  my  way, 
Where  all  men  gathered  ere  the  games  began. 
There,  at  the  right  side  of  the  royal  man, 
Who  rales  lolchos,  did  his  daughter  stand, 
Who  with  a  suppliant  bough  in  her  right  hand 
Headed  the  band  of  maidens  ;  but  to  me 
More  than  a  goddess  did  she  seem  to  be, 
Nor  fit  to  die  ;  and  therewithal  I  thought 
That  we  had  all  been  thither  called  for  naught 
But  that  her  bridegroom  Pelias  might  choose, 
And  with  that  thought  desire  did  I  let  loose, 
And  striving  not  with  Love,  I  gazed  my  fill, 
As  .one  who  will  not  fear  the  coming  ill : 
Ah,  foolish  were  mine  eyes,  foolish  my  heart, 
To  strive  in  such  a  marvel  to  have  part ! 
What  god  shall  wed  her  rather  ?  no  more  fear 
Than  vexes  Pallas  vexed  her  forehead  clear, 
Faith  shone  from  out  her  eyes,  and  on  her  lips 
Unknown  love  trembled  ;  the  Phoenician  ships 
Within  their  dark  holds  naught  so  precious  bring 
As  her  soft  golden  hair,  no  daintiest  thing 
I  ever  saw  was  half  so  wisely  wrought 
As  was  her  rosy  ear ;  beyond  all  thought, 
All  words  to  tell  of,  her  veiled  body  showed, 
As,  by  the  image  of  the  Three-formed  bowed, 
She  laid  her  offering  down  ;  then  I,  drawn  near, 
The  murmuring  of  her  gentle  voice  could  hear, 
As  waking  one  hears  music  in  the  morn, 
Ere  yet  the  fair  June  sun  is  fully  born  ; 
And  sweeter  than  the  roses  fresh  with  dew 
Sweet  odors  floated  round  me,  as  she  drew 
Some  golden  thing  from  out  her  balmy  breast 
With  her  right  hand,  the  while  her  left  hand  pressed 
The  hidden  wonders  of  her  girdlestead  ; 
And  when  abashed  I  sank  adown  my  head, 
Dreading  the  god  of  Love,  my  eyes  must  meet 
The  happy  bands  about  her  perfect  feet. 


300  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

"  What  more  ?  thou  know'st  perchance  what  thing  love  is  ? 
Kindness,  and  hot  desire,  and  rage,  and  bliss, 
None  first  a  moment ;  but  before  that  day 
No  love  I  knew  but  what  might  pass  away 
When  hot  desire  was  changed  to  certainty, 
Or  not  abide  much  longer ;  e'en  such  stings 
Had  smitten  me,  as  the  first  warm  day  brings 
When  March  is  dying  ;  but  now  half  a  god 
The  crowded  way  unto  the  lists  I  trod, 
Yet  hopeless  as  a  vanquished  god  at  whiles, 
And  hideous  seemed  the  laughter  and  the  smiles 
And  idle  talk  about  me  on  the  way. 

' '  But  none  could  stand  before  me  on  that  day, 
I  was  as  god-possessed,  not  knowing  how 
The  King  had  brought  her  forth  but  for  a  show, 
To  make  his  glory  greater  through  the  land  : 
Therefore  at  last  victorious  I  did  stand 
Among  my  peers,  nor  yet  one  well-known  name 
Had  gathered  any  honor  from  my  shame. 
For  there  indeed  both  men  of  Thessaly, 
CEtolians,  Thebans,  dwellers  by  the  sea, 
And  folk  of  Attica  and  Argolis, 
Arcadian  woodmen,  islanders,  whose  bliss 
Is  to  be  tossed  about  from  wave  to  wave, 
All  these  at  last  to  me  the  honor  gave, 
Nor  did  they  grudge  it :  yea,  and  one  man  said, 
A  wise  Thessalian  with  a  snowy  head, 
And  voice  grown  thin  with  age,  '  O  Pelias, 
Surely  to  thee  no  evil  thing  it  was 
That  to  thy  house  this  rich  Thessalian 
Should  come,  to  prove  himself  a  valiant  man   ' 
Amongst  these  heroes  ;  for  if  I  be  wise 
By  dint  of  many  years,  with  wistful  eyes 
Doth  he  behold  thy  daughter,  this  fair  maid  ; 
And  surely,  if  the  matter  were  well  weighed, 
Good  were  it  both  for  thee  and  for  the  land 
That  he  should  take  the  damsel  by  the  hand 
And  lead  her  hence,  for  ye  near  neighbors  dwell ; 
What  sayest  thou,  King,  have  I  said  ill  or  well  ? ' 

"  With  that  must  I,  a  fool,  stand  forth  and  ask 
If  yet  there  lay  before  me  some  great  task 
That  I  must  do  ere  I  the  maid  should  wed, 
But  Pelias,  looking  on  us,  smiled  and  said, 
'  O  neighbor  of  Larissa,  and  thou  too, 
O  King  Admetus,  this  may  seem  to  you 
A  little  matter ;  yea,  and  for  my  part 


THE  LOVE  OF  ALCESTIS.  301 

E'en  such  a  marriage  would  make  glad  my  heart ; 

But  we  the  blood  of  Salmoneus  who  share 

With  godlike  gifts  great  burdens  also  bear, 

Nor  is  this  maid  without  them,  for  the  day 

On  which  her  maiden  zone  she  puts  away 

Shall  be  her  death-day,  if  she  wed  with  one 

By  whom  this  marvellous  thing  may  not  be  done, 

For  in  the  traces  neither  must  steeds  paw 

Before  my  threshold,  or  white  oxen  draw 

The  wain  that  comes  my  maid  to  take  from  me, 

Far  other  beasts  that  day  her  slaves  must  be  : 

The  yellow  lion  'neath  the  lash  must  roar, 

And  by  his  side  unscared  the  forest  boar 

Toil  at  the  draught :  what  sayest  thou  then  hereto, 

0  lord  of  Pheras,  wilt  thou  come  to  woo 
In  such  a  chariot,  and  win  endless  fame, 

Or  turn  thine  eyes  elsewhere  with  little  shame  ? ' 
"  What  answered  I  ?  O  herdsman,  I  was  mad 
With  sweet  love  and  the  triumph  I  had  had. 

1  took  my  father's  ring  from  off  my  hand, 
And  said,  '  O  heroes  of  the  Grecian  land, 
Be  witnesses  that  on  my  father's  name 

For  this  man's  promise,  do  I  take  the  shame 
Of  this  deed  undone,  if  I  fail  herein  ; 
Fear  not,  O  Pelias,  but  that  I  shall  win 
This  ring  from  thee,  when  that  I  come  again 
Through  fair  lolchos,  driving  that  strange  wain. 
Else  by  this  token,  thou,  O  King,  shalt  have 
Pherae  my  home,  while  on  the  tumbling  wave 
A  hollow  ship  my  sad  abode  shall  be. ' 

"  So  driven  by  some  hostile  deity, 
Such  words  I  said,  and  with  my  gifts  hard  won, 
But  little  valued  now,  set  out  upon 
My  homeward  way  :  but  nearer  as  I  drew 
To  mine  abode,  and  ever  fainter  grew 
In  my  weak  heart  the  image  of  my  love, 
In  vain  with  fear  my  boastful  folly  strove  ; 
For  I  remembered  that  no  god  I  was 
Though  I  had  chanced  my  fellows  to  surpass  ; 
And  I  began. to  mind  me  in  a  while 
What  murmur  rose,  with  what  a  mocking  smile 
Pelias  stretched  out  his  hand  to  take  the  ring, 
Made  by  my  drunkard's  gift  now  twice  a  king  : 
And  when  unto  my  palace  door  I  came 
I  had  awakened  fully  to  my  shame  ; 
For  certainly  no  help  is  left  to  me, 


302  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

But  I  must  get  me  down  unto  the  sea 
And  build  a  keel,  and  whatso  things  I  may 
Set  in  her  hold,  and  cross  the  watery  way 
Whither  Jove  bids,  and  the  rough  winds  may  blow 
Unto  a  land  where  none  my  folly  know, 
And  there  begin  a  weary  life  anew. " 

Eager  and  bright  the  herdsman's  visage  grew 
The  while  this  tale  was  told,  and  at  the  end 
He  said,  ' '  Admetus,  I  thy  life  may  mend, 
And  thou  at  lovely  Pherse  still  may  dwell ; 
Wait  for  ten  days,  and  then  may  all  be  well, 
And  thou  to  fetch  thy  maiden  home  may  go, 
And  to  the  King  thy  team  unheard-of  show. 
And  if  not,  then  make  ready  for  the  sea 
Nor  will  I  fail  indeed  to  go  with  thee, 
And  'twixt  the  halyards  and  the  ashen  oar 
Finish  the  service  well  begun  ashore  ; 
But  meanwhile  do  I  bid  thee  hope  the  best ; 
And  take  another  herdsman  for  the  rest, 
For  unto  Ossa  must  I  go  alone 
To  do  a  deed  not  easy  to  be  done." 

Then  springing  up  he  took  his  spear  and  bow, 
And  northward  by  the  lake-shore  'gan  to  go  ; 
But  the  King  gazed  upon  him  as  he  went, 
Then,  sighing,  turned  about,  and  homeward  bent 
His  lingering  steps,  and  hope  began  to  spring 
Within  his  heart,  for  some  betokening 
He  seemed  about  the  herdsman  now  to  see 
Of  one  from  mortal  cares  and  troubles  free. 

And  so  midst  hopes  and  fears  day  followed  day, 
Until  at  last  upon  his  bed  he  lay 
When  the  gray,  creeping  dawn  had  now  begun 
To  make  the  wide  world  ready  for  the  sun 
On  the  tenth  day  :  sleepless  had  been  the  night, 
And  now  in  that  first  hour  of  gathering  light 
For  weariness  he  slept,  and  dreamed  that  he 
Stood  by  the  border  of  a  fair  calm  sea 
At  point  to  go  a-shipboard,  and  to  leave 
Whatever  from  his  sire  he  did  receive 
Of  land  or  kingship  ;  and  withal  he  dreamed 
That  through  the  cordage  a  bright  light  there  gleamed 
Far  off  within  the  east ;  and  nowise  sad 
He  felt  at  leaving  all  he  might  have  had, 
But  rather  as  a  man  who  goes  to  see 


THE  LOVE  OF  ALCESTIS.  303 

Some  heritage  expected  patiently. 

But  when  he  moved  to  leave  the  firm  fixed  shore, 

The  windless  sea  rose  high  and  'gan  to  roar, 

And  from  the  gangway  thrust  the  ship  aside, 

Until  he  hung  over  a  chasm  wide 

Vocal  with  furious  waves,  yet  had  no  fear 

For  all  the  varied  tumult  he  might  hear, 

But  slowly  woke  up  to  the  morning  light 

That  to  his  eyes  seemed  past  all  memory  bright, 

And  then  strange  sounds  he  heard,  whereat  his  heart 

Woke  up  to  joyous  life  with  one  glad  start, 

And  nigh  his  bed  he  saw  the  herdsman  stand, 

Holding  a  long  white  staff  in  his  right  hand, 

Carved  with  strange  figures  ;  and  withal  he  said, 

"  Awake,  Admetus  !  loiter  not  abed, 
But  haste  thee  to  bring  home  thy  promised  bride, 
For  now  an  ivory  chariot  waits  outside, 
Yoked  to  such  beasts  as  Pelias  bade  thee  bring ; 
Whose  guidance  thou  shalt  find  an  easy  thing, 
If  in  thine  hands  thou  holdest  still  this  rod, 
Whereon  are  carved  the  names  of  every  god 
That  rules  the  fertile  earth  ;  but  having  come 
Unto  King  Pelias'  well-adorned  home, 
Abide  not  long,  but  take  the  royal  maid, 
And  let  her  dowry  in  thy  wain  be  laid, 
Of  silver  and  fine  cloth  and  unmixed  gold, 
For  this  indeed  will  Pelias  not  withhold 
When  he  shall  see  thee  like  a  very  god. 
Then  let  thy  beasts,  ruled  by  this  carven  rod, 
Turn  round  to  Pherse  ;  yet  must  thou  abide 
Before  thou  comest  to  the  streamlet's  side 
That  feed  its  dykes  ;  there,  by  the  little  wood 
Wherein  unto  Diana  men  shed  blood, 
Will  I  await  thee,  and  thou  shalt  descend 
And  hand  in  hand  afoot  through  Pherse  wend  ; 
And  yet  I  bid  thee,  this  night  let  thy  bride 
Apart  among  the  womenfolk  abide  ; 
That  on  the  morrow  thou  with  sacrifice 
For  these  strange  deeds  may  pay  a  fitting  price. " 

But  as  he  spoke  with  something  like  to  awe, 
His  eyes  and  much-changed  face  Admetus  saw, 
And  voiceless  like  a  slave  his  words  obeyed  ; 
For  rising  up  no  more  delay  he  made, 
But  took  the  staff  and  gained  the  palace-door 
Where  stood  the  beasts,  whose  mingled  whine  and  roar 


304  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Had  wrought  his  dream  ;  there  two  and  two  they  stood, 

Thinking,  it  might  be,  of  the  tangled  wood, 

And  all  the  joys  of  the  food-hiding  trees, 

But  harmless  as  their  painted  images 

'Neath  some  dread  spell ;  then,  leaping  up,  he  took 

The  reins  in  hand  and  the  bossed  leather  shook, 

And  no  delay  the  conquered  beasts  durst  make 

But  drew,  not  silent ;  and  folk  just  awake 

When  he  went  by,  as  though  a  god  they  saw, 

Fell  on  their  knees,  and  maidens  come  to  draw 

Fresh  water  from  the  fount  sank  trembling  down, 

And  silence  held  the  babbling  wakened  town. 

So  'twixt  the  dewy  hedges  did  he  wend, 
And  still  their  noise  afar  the  beasts  did  send, 
His  strange  victorious  advent  to  proclaim, 
Till  to  lolchos  at  the  last  he  came, 
And  drew  anigh  the  gates,  whence  in  affright 
The  guards  fled,  helpless  at  the  wondrous  sight ; 
And  through  the  town  news  of  the  coming  spread 
Of  some  great  god  so  that  the  scared  priests  led 
Pale  suppliants  forth  ;  who,  in  unmeet  attire 
And  hastily  caught  boughs  and  smouldering  fire 
Within  their  censers,  in  the  market-place 
Awaited  him  with  many  an  upturned  face, 
Trembling  with  fear  of  that  unnamed  new  god ; 
But  through  the  midst  of  them  his  lions  trod 
With  noiseless  feet,  nor  noted  aught  their  prey, 
And  the  boars'  hoofs  went  pattering  on  the  way, 
While  from  their  churning  tusks  the  white  foam  flew 
As  raging,  helpless,  in  the  trace  they  drew. 

But  Pelias,  knowing  all  the  work  of  fate, 
Sat  in  his  brazen-pillared  porch  to  wait 
The  coming  of  the  King  ;  the  while  the  maid 
In  her  fair  marriage  garments  was  arrayed, 
And  from  strong  places  of  his  treasury 
Men  brought  fine  scarlet  from  the  Syrian  sea, 
And  works  of  brass,  and  ivory,  and  gold  ; 
But  when  the  strange  yoked  beasts  he  did  behold 
Come  through  the  press  of  people  terrified, 
Then  he  arose  and  o'er  the  clamor  cried, 
"  Hail,  thou,  who  like  a  very  god  art  come 
To  bring  great  honor  to  my  damsel's  home  "  ; 
And  _when  Admerus  tightened  rein  before 
The  gleaming,  brazen-wrought,  half-open  door, 
He  cried  to  Pelias,  "  Hail,  to  thee,  O  King; 
Let  me  behold  once  more  my  father's  ring, 


THE  LOVE   OF  ALCESTIS.  305 

Let  me  behold  the  prize  that  I  have  won, 
Mine  eyes  are  wearying  now  to  look  upon." 

"  Fear  not,"  he  said,  "  the  fates  are  satisfied ; 
Yet  wilt  thou  not  descend  and  here  abide, 
Doing  me  honor  till  the  next  bright  morn 
Has  dried  the  dew  upon  the  new-sprung  corn, 
That  we  in  turn  may  give  the  honor  due 
To  such  a  man  that  such  a  thing  can  do, 
And  unto  all  the  gods  may  sacrifice  ?  " 

"Nay,"  said  Admetus,  "  if  thou  call'st  me  wise, 
And  like  a  very  god  thou  dost  me  deem, 
Shall  I  abide  the  ending  of  the  dream 
And  so  gain  nothing  ?  nay,  let  me  be  glad 
That  I  at  least  one  godlike  hour  have  had 
At  whatsoever  time  I  come  to  die, 
That  I  may  mock  the  world  that  passes  by 
And  yet  forgets  it"     Saying  this,  indeed, 
Of  Pelias  did  he  seem  to  take  small  heed, 
But  spoke  as  one  unto  himself  may  speak, 
And  still  the  half-shut  door  his  eyes  did  seek, 
Wherethrough  from  distant  rooms  sweet  music  came, 
Setting  his  over-strained  heart  aflame, 
Because  amidst  the  Lydian  flutes  he  thought 
From  place  to  place  his  love  the  maidens  brought 

Then  Pelias  said,  "  What  can  I  give  to  thee 
Who  fail'st  so  little  of  divinity  ? 
Yet  let  my  slaves  lay  these  poor  gifts  within 
Thy  chariot,  while  my  daughter  strives  to  win 
The  favor  of  the  spirits  of  this  place, 
Since  from  their  altars  she  must  turn  her  face 
Forever  now  ;  hearken,  her  flutes  I  hear, 
From  the  last  chapel  doth  she  draw  anear." 

Then  by  Admetus'  feet  the  folk  'gan  pile 
The  precious  things,  but  he  no  less  the  while 
Stared  at  the  door  ajar,  and  thought  it  long 
Ere  with  the  flutes  mingled  the  maidens'  song, 
And  both  grew  louder,  and  the  scarce  seen  floor 
Was  fluttering  with  white  raiment,  and  the  door 
By  slender  fingers  was  set  open  wide, 
And  midst  her  damsels  he  beheld  the  bride 
Ungirt,  with  hair  unbound  and  garlanded  : 
Then  Pelias  took  her  slender  hand  and  said, 
"  Daughter,  this  is  the  man  that  takes  from  thee 
Thy  curse  midst  women,  think  no  more  to  be 
Childless,  unloved,  and  knowing  little  bliss  ; 
But  now  behold  how  like  a  god  he  is, 
2O 


306  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And  yet  with  what  prayers  for  the  love  of  thee 
He  must  have  wearied  some  divinity, 
And  therefore  in  thine  inmost  heart  be  glad 
That  thou  'mongst  women  such  a  man  hast  had. " 

Then  she  with  wondering  eyes  that  strange  team  saw 
A  moment,  then  as  one  with  gathering  awe 
Might  turn  from  Jove's  bird  unto  very  Jove, 
So  did  she  raise  her  gray  eyes  to  her  love, 
But  to  her  brow  the  blood  rose  therewithal, 
And  she  must  tremble,  such  a  look  did  fall 
Upon  her  faithful  eyes,  that  none  the  less 
Would  falter  aught  for  all  her  shamefastness, 
But  rather  to  her  lover's  hungry  eyes 
Gave  back  a  tender  look  of  glad  surprise, 
Wherein  love's  flame  began  to  flicker  now. 

Withal,  her  father  kissed  her  on  the  brow, 
And  said,  "  O  daughter,  take  this  royal  ring, 
And  set  it  on  the  finger  of  the  King, 
And  come  not  back  ;  and  thou,Admetus,  pour 
This  wine  to  Jove  before  my  open  door, 
And  glad  at  heart  take  back  thine  own  with  thee." 

Then  with  that  word  Alcestis  silently, 
And  with  no  look  cast  back, and  ring  in  hand, 
Went  forth,  and  soon  beside  her  love  did  stand, 
Nor  on  his  finger  failed  to  set  the  ring ; 
And  then  a  golden  cup  the  city's  King 
Gave  to  him,  and  he  poured  and  said,  "  O  thou, 
From  whatsoever  place  thou  lookest  now, 
What  prayers,  what  gifts  unto  thee  shall  I  give 
That  we  a  little  time  with  love  may  live  ? 
A  little  time  of  love,  then  fall  asleep 
Together,  while  the  crown  of  love  we  keep. " 

So  spake  he,  and  his  strange  beasts  turned  about, 
And  heeded  not  the  people's  wavering  shout 
That  from  their  old  fear  and  new  pleasure  sprung, 
Nor  noted  aught  of  what  the  damsels  sung, 
Or  of  the  flowers  that  after  them  they  cast, 
But  like  a  dream  the  guarded  city  passed, 
And  'twixt  the  song  of  birds  and  blossoms'  scent 
It  seemed  for  many  hundred  years  they  went, 
Though  short  the  way  was  unto  Pheras's  gates  ; 
Time  they  forgat,  and  gods,  and  men,  and  fates, 
However  nigh  unto  their  hearts  they  were  ; 
The  woodland  boars,  the  yellow  lords  of  fear, 
No  more  seemed  strange  to  them,  but  all  the  earth 
With  all  its  changing  sorrow  and  wild  mirth 


THE  LOVE   OF  ALCESTIS.  307 

In  that  fair  hour  seemed  new-born  to  the  twain, 
Grief  seemed  a  play  forgot,  a  pageant  vain, 
A  picture  painted,  who  knows  where  or  when, 
With  soulless  images  of  restless  men ; 
For  every  thought  but  love  was  passed  away, 
And  they  forgot  that  they  should  ever  die. 

But  when  they  came  anigh  the  sacred  wood, 
There,  biding  them,  Admetus'  herdsman  stood, 
At  sight  of  whom  those  yoke-fellows  unchecked 
Stopped  dead  and  little  of  Admetus  recked 
Who  now,  as  one  from  dreams  not  yet  awoke, 
Drew  back  his  love  and  that  strange  wain  forsook, 
And  gave  the  carven  rod  and  guiding  bands 
Into  the  waiting  herdsman's  outstretched  hands, 
But  when  he  fain  had  thanked  him  for  the  thing 
That  he  had  done,  his  speechless  tongue  would  cling 
Unto  his  mouth,  and  why  he  could  not  tell. 
But  the  man  said,  "  No  words !  thou  hast  done  well 
To  me,  as  I  to  thee  ;  the  day  may  come 
When  thou  shall  ask  me  for  a  fitting  home, 
Nor  shalt  thou  ask  in  vain  ;  but  hasten  now, 
And  to  thine  house  this  royal  maiden  show, 
Then  give  her  to  thy  women  for  this  night. 
But  when  thou  wakest  up  to  thy  delight 
To-morrow,  do  all  things  that  should  be  done, 
Nor  of  the  gods  forget  thou  any  one, 
And  on  the  next  day  will  I  come  again 
To  tend  thy  flocks  upon  the  grassy  plain. 

"  But  now  depart,  and  from  thine  home  send  here 
Chariot  and  horse,  these  gifts  of  thine  to  bear 
Unto  thine  house,  and  going,  look  not  back 
Lest  many  a  wished-for  thing  thou  com'st  to  lack." 

Then  hand  in  hand  together,  up  the  road 
The  lovers  passed  unto  the  King's  abode, 
And  as  they  went,  the  whining  sn9rt  and  roar 
From  the  yoked  beasts  they  heard  break  out  once  more 
And  then  die  off,  as  they  were  led  away, 
But  whether  to  some  place  lit  up  by  day, 
Or,  'neath  the  earth,  they  knew  not,  for  the  twain 
Went  hastening  on,  nor  once  looked  back  again. 

But  soon  the  minstrels  met  them,  and  a  band 
Of  white-robed  damsels  flowery  boughs  in  hand, 
To  bid  them  welcome  to  that  pleasant  place. 
Then  they,  rejoicing  much,  in  no  long  space 
Came  to  the  brazen-pillared  porch,  whereon 


308  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

From  'twixt  the  passes  of  the  hills  yet  shone 
The  dying  sun  ;  and  there  she  stood  awhile 
Without  the  threshold,  a  faint  tender  smile 
Trembling  upon  her  lips  'twixt  love  and  shame, 
Until  each  side  of  her  a  maiden  came 
And  raised  her  in  their  arms,  that  her  fair  feet 
The  polished  brazen  threshold  might  not  meet, 
And  in  Admetus'  house  she  stood  at  last. 

But  to  the  women's  chamber  straight  she  passed 
Bepraised  of  all,  —  and  so  the  wakeful  night 
Lonely  the  lovers  passed  e'en  as  they  might. 

But  the  next  day, with  many  a  sacrifice, 
Admetus  wrought,  for  such  a  well-won  prize, 
A  life  so  blest,  the  gods  to  satisfy, 
And  many  a  matchless  beast  that  day  did  die 
Upon  the  altars  ;  naught  unlucky  seemed 
To  be  amid  the  joyous  crowd  that  gleamed 
With  gold  and  precious  things,  and  only  this 
Seemed  wanting  to  the  King  of  Pherae's  bliss, 
That  all  these  pageants  should  be  soon  past  by, 
And  hid  by  night  the  fair  spring  blossoms  lie. 


YET  on  the  morrow-morn  Admetus  came, 
A  haggard  man  oppressed  with  grief  and  shame, 
Unto  the  spot  beside  Boebeis'  shore 
Whereby  he  met  his  herdsman  once  before, 
And  there  again  he  found  him  flushed  and  glad, 
And  from  the  babbling  water  newly  clad, 
Then  he  with  downcast  eyes  these  words  began, 

"  O  thou,  whatso  thy  name  is,  god  or  man, 
Hearken  to  me  ;  meseemeth  of  thy  deed 
Some  dread  immortal  taketh  angry  heed. 

"  Last  night  the  height  of  my  desire  seemed  won, 
All  day  my  weary  eyes  had  watched  the  sun 
Rise  up  and  sink,  and  now  was  come  the  night 
When  I  should  be  alone  with  my  delight ; 
Silent  the  house  was  now  from  floor  to  roof, 
And  in  the  well-hung  chambers,  far  aloof, 
The  feasters  lay ;  the  moon  was  in  the  sky, 
The  soft  spring  wind  was  wafting  lovingly 
Across  the  gardens  fresh  scents  to  my  sweet, 
As,  troubled  with  the  sound  of  my  own  feet, 
I  passed  betwixt  the  pillars,  whose  long  shade 


THE  LOVE   OF  ALCESTIS. 

Black  on  the  white  red-veined  floor  was  laid  : 

So  happy  was  I  that  the  briar-rose, 

Rustling  outside  within  the  flowery  close, 

Seemed  but  Love's  odorous  wing  —  too  real  all  seemed 

For  such  a  joy  as  I  had  never  dreamed. 

"Why  do  I  linger,  as  I  lingered  not 
In  that  fair  hour,  now  ne'er  to  be  forgot 
While  my  life  lasts  ?  —  Upon  the  gilded  door 
I  laid  my  hand  ;  I  stood  upon  the  floor 
Of  the  bride-chamber,  and  I  saw  the  bride, 
Lovelier  than  any  dream,  stand  by  the  side 
Of  the  gold  bed,  with  hands  that  hid  her  face  : 
One  cry  of  joy  I  gave,  and  then  the  place 
Seemed  changed  to  hell  as  in  a  hideous  dream. 

"  Still  did  the  painted  silver  pillars  gleam 
Betwixt  the  scented  torches  and  the  moon ; 
Still  did  the  garden  shed  its  odorous  boon 
Upon  the  night ;  still  did  the  nightingale 
Unto  his  brooding  mate  tell  all  his  tale  : 
But,  risen  'twixt  my  waiting  love  and  me, 
As  soundless  as  the  dread  eternity, 
Sprung  up  from  nothing,  could  mine  eyes  behold 
A  huge  dull-gleaming  dreadful  coil  that  rolled 
In  changing  circles  on  the  pavement  fair. 
Then  for  the  sword  that  was  no  longer  there 
My  hand  sank  to  my  side  ;  around  I  gazed, 
And  'twixt  the  coils  I  met  her  gray  eyes  glazed 
With  sudden  horror  most  unspeakable  ; 
And  when  mine  own  upon  no  weapon  fell, 
For  what  should  weapons  do  in  such  a  place, 
Unto  the  dragon's  head  I  set  my  face, 
And  raised  bare  hands  against  him,  but  a  cry 
Burst  on  mine  ears  of  utmost  agony 
That  nailed  me  there,  and  she  cried  out  to  me, 
'  O  get  thee  hence  ;  alas,  I  cannot  flee  ! 
They  coil  about  me  now  my  lips  to  kiss. 
O  love,  why  hast  thou  brought  me  unto  this  ? ' 

"  Alas,  my  shame  !  trembling,  away  I  slunk, 
Yet  turning  saw  the  fearful  coil  had  sunk 
To  whence  it  came,  my  love's  limbs  freed  I  saw, 
And  a  long  breath  at  first  I  heard  her  draw 
As  one  redeemed,  then  heard  the  hard  sobs  come, 
And  waitings  for  her  new  accursed  home. 
But  there  outside  across  the  door  I  lay, 
Like  a  scourged  hound,  until  the  dawn  of  day ; 
And  as  her  gentle  breathing  then  I  heard 


309 


310  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

As  though  she  slept,  before  the  earliest  bird 
Began  his  song,  I  wandered  forth  to  seek 
Thee,  O  strange  man,  e'en  as  thou  seest  me,  weak 
With  all  the  torment  of  the  night,  and  shamed 
With  such  a  shame  as  never  shall  be  named 
To  aught  but  thee  —  Yea,  yea,  and  why  to  thee, 
Perchance  this  ends  all  thou  wilt  do  for  me  ?  — 
What  then,  and  have  I  not  a  cure  for  that  ? 
Lo,  yonder  is  a  rock  where  I  have  sat 
Full  many  an  hour  while  yet  my  life  was  life, 
With  hopes  of  all  the  coming  wonder  rife. 
No  sword  hangs  by  my  side,  no  god  will  turn 
This  cloudless  hazy  blue  to  black,  and  burn 
My  useless  body  with  his  lightning  flash  ; 
But  the  white  waves  above  my  bones  may  wash, 
And  when  old  chronicles  our  house  shall  name 
They  may  leave  out  the  letters  and  the  shame 
That  make  Admetus,  once  a  king  of  men  — 
And  how  could  I  be  worse  or  better  then  ?  " 

As  one  who  notes  a  curious  instrument 
Working  against  the  maker's  own  intent, 
The  herdsman  eyed  his  wan  face  silently, 
And  smiling  for  a  while,  and  then  said  he,  — 
"  Admetus,  thou,  in  spite  of  all  I  said, 
Hast  drawn  this  evil  thing  upon  thine  head, 
Forgetting  her  who  erewhile  laid  the  curse 
Upon  the  maiden,  so  for  fear  of  worse 
Go  back  again ;  for  fair-limbed  Artemis 
Now  bars  the  sweet  attainment  of  thy  bliss ; 
So  taking  heart,  yet  make  no  more  delay 
But  worship  her  upon  this  very  day, 
Nor  spare  for  aught,  and  of  thy  trouble  make 
No  semblance  unto  any  for  her  sake  ; 
And  thick  upon  the  fair  bride-chamber  floor 
Strew  dittany,  and  on  each  side  the  door 
Hang  up  such  poppy-leaves  as  spring  may  yield  ; 
And  for  the  rest,  myself  may  be  a  shield 
Against  her  wrath  —  nay,  be  thou  not  too  bold 
To  ask  me  that  which  may  not  now  be  told. 
Yea,  even  what  thou  deemest,  hide  it  deep 
Within  thine  heart,  and  let  thy  wonder  sleep, 
For  surely  thou  shalt  one  day  know  my  name, 
When  the  time  comes  again  that  autumn's  flame 
Is  dying  off  the  vine  boughs,  overturned, 
Stripped  of  their  wealth.     But  now  let  gifts  be  burned 


THE  LOVE   OF  ALCESTIS.  311 

To  her  I  told  thee  of,  and  in  three  days 
Shall  I  by  many  hard  and  rugged  ways 
Have  come  to  thee  again  to  bring  thee  peace. 
Go,  the  sun  rises  and  the  shades  decrease. " 

Then,  thoughtfully,  Admetus  gat  him  back, 
Nor  did  the  altars  of  the  Huntress  lack 
The  fattest  of  the  flocks  upon  that  day. 
But  when  night  came,  in  arms  Admetus  lay 
Across  the  threshold  of  the  bride-chamber, 
And  naught  amiss  that  night  he  noted  there, 
But  durst  not  enter,  though  about  the  door 
Young  poppy  leaves  were  twined,  and  on  the  floor, 
Not  flowered  as  yet  with  downy  leaves  and  gray, 
Fresh  dittany  beloved  of  wild  goats  lay. 

But  when  the  whole  three  days  and  nights  were  done, 
The  herdsman  came  with  rising  of  the  sun, 
And  said,  "  Admetus,  now  rejoice  again, 
Thy  prayers  and  offerings  have  not  been  in  vain, 
And  thou  at  last  may'st  come  unto  thy  bliss  ; 
And  if  thou  askest  for  a  sign  of  this, 
Take  thou  this  token  ;  make  good  haste  to  rise, 
And  get  unto  the  garden-close  that  lies 
Below  these  windows  sweet  with  greenery, 
And  in  the  midst  a  marvel  shalt  thou  see, 
Three  white,  black-hearted  poppies  blossoming, 
Though  this  is  but  the  middle  of  the  spring." 

Nor  was  it  otherwise  than  he  had  said, 
And  on  that  day  with  joy  the  twain  were  wed, 
And  'gan  to  lead  a  life  of  great  delight ; 
But  the  strange  woful  history  of  that  night, 
The  monstrous  car,  the  promise  to  the  King, 
All  these  through  weary  hours  of  chiselling 
Were  wrought  in  stone,  and  in  Diana's  wall 
Set  up,  a  joy  and  witness  unto  all. 

But  neither  so  would  winged  time  abide, 
The  changing  year  came  round  to  autumn-tide, 
Until  at  last  the  day  was  fully  come 
When  the  strange  guest  first  reached  Admetus'  home. 
Then,  when  the  sun  was  reddening  to  its  end, 
He  to  Admetus'  brazen  porch  did  wend, 
Whom  there  he  found  feathering  a  poplar  dart, 
Then  said  he,  "  King,  the  time  has  come  to  part, 
Come  forth,  for  I  have  that  to  give  thine  ear 
No  man  upon  the  earth  but  thou  must  hear." 

Then  rose  the  King,  and  with  a  troubled  look 
His  well-steeled  spear  within  his  hand  he  took, 


312  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE, 

And  by  his  herdsman  silently  he  went 

As  to  a  peaked  hill  his  steps  he  bent, 

Nor  did  the  parting  servant  speak  one  word, 

As  up  they  climbed,  unto  his  silent  lord, 

Till  from  the  top  he  turned  about  his  head 

From  all  the  glory  of  the  gold  light,  shed 

Upon  the  hill-top  by  the  setting  sun, 

For  now  indeed  the  day  was  wellnigh  done, 

And  all  the  eastern  vale  was  gray  and  cold  ; 

But  when  Admetus  he  did  now  behold, 

Panting  beside  him  from  the  steep  ascent, 

One  godlike,  changed  look  on  him  he  bent, 

And  said,  "  O  mortal,  listen,  for  I  see 

Thou  deemest  somewhat  of  what  is  in  me ; 

Fear  not !  I  love  thee,  even  as  I  can 

Who  cannot  feel  the  woes  and  ways  of  man 

In  spite  of  this  my  seeming,  for  indeed 

Now  thou  beholdest  Jove's  immortal  seed  ; 

And  what  my  name  is  I  would  tell  thee  now, 

If  men,  who  dwell  upon  the  earth  as  thou, 

Could  hear  the  name  and  live ;  but  on  the  earth, 

With  strange  melodious  stories  of  my  birth, 

Phoebus  men  call  me,  and  Latona's  son. 

"  And  now  my  servitude  with  thee  is  done, 
And  I  shall  leave  thee  toiling  on  thine  earth, 
This  handful,  that  within  its  little  girth 
Holds  that  which  moves  you  so,  O  men  that  die  ; 
Behold,  to-day  thou  hast  felicity, 
But  the  times  change,  and  I  can  see  a  day 
When  all  thine  happiness  shall  fade  away  ; 
And  yet  be  merry,  strive  not  with  the  end, 
Thou  canst  not  change  it ;  for  the  rest,  a  friend 
This  year  has  won  thee  who  shall  never  fail : 
But  now  indeed,  for  naught  will  it  avail 
To  say  what  I  may  have  in  store  for  thee, 
Of  gifts  that  men  desire  ;  let  these  things  be, 
And  live  thy  life,  till  death  itself  shall  come, 
And  turn  to  naught  the  storehouse  of  thine  home, 
Then  think  of  me ;  these  feathered  shafts  behold, 
That  here  have  been  the  terror  of  the  wold, 
Take  these,  and  count  them  still  the  best  of  all 
Thy  envied  wealth,  and  when  on  thee  shall  fall 
By  any  way  the  worst  extremity, 
Call  upon  me  before  thou  com'st  to  die, 
And  lay  these  shafts  with  incense  on  a  fire, 
That  thou  may'st  gain  thine  uttermost  desire." 


THE  LOVE   OF  ALCESTIS.  313 

lie  ceased,  but  ere  the  golden  tongue  was  still 
An  odorous  mist  had  stolen  up  the  hill, 
And  to  Admetus  first  the  god  grew  dim, 
And  then  was  but  a  lovely  voice  to  him, 
And  then  at  last  the  sun  had  sunk  to  rest, 
And  a  fresh  wind  blew  lightly  from  the  west 
Over  the  hill-top,  and  no  soul  was  there ; 
But  the  sad  dying  autumn  field-flowers  fair, 
Rustled  dry  leaves  about  the  windy  place, 
Where  even  now  had  been  the  godlike  face, 
And  in  their  midst  the  brass-bound  quiver  lay. 
Then,  going  further  westward,  far  away 
He  saw  the  gleaming  of  Peneus  wan 
'Neath  the  white  sky,  but  never  any  man, 
Except   a  gray-haired  shepherd  driving  down 
From  off  the  long  slopes  to  his  fold-yard  brown 
His  woolly  sheep,  with  whom  a  maiden  went, 
Singing  for  labor  done  and  sweet  content 
Of  coming  rest ;  with  that  he  turned  again, 
And  took  the  shafts  up,  never  sped  in  vain, 
And  came  unto  his  house  most  deep  in  thought 
Of  all  the  things  the  varied  year  had  brought. 


HP  HENCEFORTH  in  bliss  and  honor  day  by  day 

J.     His  measured  span  of  sweet  life  wore  away. 
A  happy  man  he  was  ;  no  vain  desire 
Of  foolish  fame  had  set  his  heart  afire  ; 
No  care  he  had  the  ancient  bounds  to  change, 
Nor  yet  for  him  must  idle  soldiers  range 
From  place  to  place  about  the  burdened  land, 
Or  thick  upon  the  ruined  cornfields  stand  ; 
For  him  no  trumpets  blessed  the  bitter  war, 
Wherein  the  right  and  wrong  so  mingled  are, 
That  hardly  can  the  man  of  single  heart 
Amid  the  sickening  turmoil  choose  his  part ; 
For  him  sufficed  the  changes  of  the  year, 
The  god-sent  terror  was  enough  of  fear 
For  him  ;  enough  the  battle  with  the  earth, 
The  autumn  triumph  over  drought  and  dearth. 

Better  to  him  than  wolf-moved  battered  shields, 
O'er  poor  dead  corpses,  seemed  the  stubble  fields 
Danced  down  beneath  the  moon,  until  the  night 


14  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Grew  dreamy  with  a  shadowy  sweet  delight, 

And  with  the  high-risen  moon  came  pensive  thought, 

And  men  in  love's  despite  must  grow  distraught 

And  loiter  in  the  dance,  and  maidens  drop 

Their  gathered  raiment,  and  the  fifer  stop 

His  dancing  notes  the  pensive  drone  that  chid, 

And  as  they  wander  to  their  dwellings  hid 

By  the  black  shadowed  trees,  faint  melody, 

Mournful  and  sweet,  their  soft  good-night  must  be. 

Far  better  spoil  the  gathering  vat  bore  in 
Unto  the  pressing  shed,  than  midst  the  din 
Of  falling  houses  in  war's  wagon  lies 
Besmeared  with  redder  stains  than  Tynan  dyes  ; 
Or  when  the  temple  of  the  sea-born  one 
With  glittering  crowns  and  gay  attire  shone, 
Fairer  the  maidens  seemed  by  no  chain  bound, 
But  such  as  amorous  arms  might  cast  around 
Their  lovely  bodies,  than  the  wretched  band 
WTho  midst  the  shipmen  by  the  gangway  stand ; 
Each  lonely  in  her  speechless  misery, 
And  thinking  of  the  worse  time  that  shall  be, 
When  midst  of  folk  who  scarce  can  speak  her  name, 
She  bears  the  uttermost  of  toil  and  shame. 

Better  to  him  seemed  that  victorious  crown, 
That  midst  the  reverent  silence  of  the  town 
He  oft  would  set  upon  some  singer's  brow 
Than  was  the  conqueror's  diadem,  blest  now 
By  lying  priests,  soon,  bent  and  bloody,  hung 
Within  the  thorn  by  linnets  well  besung, 
Who  think  but  little  of  the  corpse  beneath, 
Though  ancient  lands  have  trembled  at  his  breath. 

But  to  this  King,  — fair  Ceres'  gifts,  the  days 
Whereon  men  sung  in  flushed  Lyseus'  praise 
Tales  of  old  time,  the  bloodless  sacrifice 
Unto  the  goddess  of  the  downcast  eyes 
And  soft  persuading  lips,  the  ringing  lyre 
Unto  the  bearer  of  the  holy  fire 

Who  once  had  been  amongst  them,  —  things  like  these 
Seemed  meet  to  him  men's  yearning  to  appease, 
These  were  the  triumphs  of  the  peaceful  king. 

And  so,  betwixt  seedtime  and  harvesting, 
With  little  fear  his  life  must  pass  away  ; 
And  for  the  rest,  he,  from  the  selfsame  day 
That  the  god  left  him,  seemed  to  have  some  share 
In  that  same  godhead  he  had  harbored  there  : 


THE  LOVE   OF  ALCESTIS.  315 

In  all  things  grew  his  wisdom  and  his  wealth, 
And  folk  beholding  the  fair  state  and  health 
Wherein  his  land  was,  said,  that  now  at  last 
A  fragment  of  the  Golden  Age  was  cast 
Over  the  place,  for  there  was  no  debate, 
And  men  forgot  the  very  name  of  hate. 

Nor  failed  the  love  of  her  he  erst  had  won 
To  hold  his  heart  as  still  the  years  wore  on, 
And  she,  no  whit  less  fair  than  on  the  day 
When  from  lolchos  first  she  passed  away, 
Did  all  his  will  as  though  he  were  a  god, 
And,  loving  still,  the  downward  way  she  trod. 

Honor  and  love,  plenty  and  peace,  he  had  ; 
Nor  lacked  for  aught  that  makes  a  wise  man  glad, 
That  makes  him  like  a  rich  well-honored  guest 
Scarce  sorry  when  the  time  comes,  for  the  rest, 
That  at  the  last  perforce  must  bow  his  head. 

And  yet  —  was  death  not  much  remembered, 
As  still  with  happy  men  the  manner  is  ? 
Or,  was  he  not  so  pleased  with  this  world's  bliss, 
As  to  be  soriy  when  the  time  should  come 
When  but  his  name  should  hold  his  ancient  home 
While  he  dwelt  nowhere  ?  either  way  indeed, 
Will  be  enough  for  most  men's  daily  need, 
And  with  calm  faces  they  may  watch  the  world, 
And  note  men's  lives  hither  and  thither  hurled, 
As  folk  may  watch  the  unfolding  of  a  play  — 
Nor  this,  nor  that  was  King  Admetus'  way, 
For  neither  midst  the  sweetness  of  his  life 
Did  he  forget  the  ending  of  the  strife, 
Nor  yet  for  heavy  thoughts  of  passing  pain 
Did  all  his  life  seem  lost  to  him  or  vain, 
A  wasteful  jest  of  Jove,  an  empty  dream  ; 
Rather  before  him  did  a  vague  hope  gleam, 
That  made  him  a  great-hearted  man  and  wise, 
Who  saw  the  deeds  of  men  with  far-seeing  eyes, 
And  dealt  them  pitying  justice  still,  as  though 
The  inmost  heart  of  each  man  he  did  know ; 
This  hope  it  was,  and  not  his  kingly  place 
That  made  men's  hearts  rejoice  to  see  his  face 
Rise  in  the  council  hall  ;  through  this,  men  felt 
That  in  their  midst  a  son  of  man  there  dwelt 
Like  and  unlike  them,  and  their  friend  through  all ; 
And  still  as  time  went  on,  the  more  would  fall 
This  glory  on  the  King's  beloved  head, 
And  round  his  life  fresh  hope  and  fear  were  shed. 


316  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Yet  at  the  last  his  good  days  passed  away, 
And  sick  upon  his  bed  Admetus  lay, 
'Twixt  him  and  death  naught  but  a  lessening  veil 
Of  hasty  minutes,  yet  did  hope  not  fail, 
Nor  did  bewildering  fear  torment  him  then, 
But  still,  as  ever,  all  the  ways  of  men 
Seemed  clear  to  him  :  but  he,  while  yet  his  breath 
Still  held  the  gateway  'gainst  the  arms  of  death, 
Turned  to  his  wife,  who,  bowed  beside  the  bed, 
Wept  for  his  love,  and  dying  goodlihead, 
And  bade  her  put  all  folk  from  out  the  room, 
Then  going  to  the  treasury's  rich  gloom 
To  bear  the  arrows  forth,  the  Lycian's  gift. 
So  she,  amidst  her  blinding  tears,  made  shift 
To  find  laid  in  the  inmost  treasury 
Those  shafts,  and  brought  them  unto  him,  but  he, 
Beholding  them,  beheld  therewith  his  life, 
Both  that  now  past  with  many  marvels  rife, 
And  that  which  he  had  hoped  he  yet  should  see. 

Then  spoke  he  faintly,  "  Love,  'twixt  thee  and  me 
A  film  has  come,  and  I  am  fainting  fast : 
And  now  our  ancient  happy  life  is  past ; 
For  either  this  is  death's  dividing  hand, 
And  all  is  done,  or  if  the  shadowy  land 
I  yet  escape,  full  surely  if  I  live 
The  god  with  life  some  other  gift  will  give, 
And  change  me  to  thee ;  even  at  this  tide 
Like  a  dead  man  among  you  all  I  bide, 
Until  I  once  again  behold  my  guest, 
And  he  has  given  me  either  life  or  rest : 
Alas,  my  love !  that  thy  too  loving  heart 
Nor  with  my  life  or  death  can  have  a  part. 
O  cruel  words  !  yet  death  is  cruel  too  : 
Stoop  down  and  kiss  me,  for  I  yearn  for  you 
E'en  as  the  autumn  yearneth  for  the  sun. 

"  O  love,  a  little  time  we  have  been  one, 
And  if  we  now  are  twain  weep  not  therefore  ; 
For  many  a  man  on  earth  desireth  sore 
To  have  some  mate  upon  the  toilsome  road, 
Some  sharer  of  his  still  increasing  load, 
And  yet  for  all  his  longing  and  his  pain 
His  troubled  heart  must  seek  for  love  in  vain, 
And  till  he  dies  still  must  he  be  alone  — 
But  now,  although  our  love  indeed  is  gone, 
Yet  to  this  land  as  thou  art  leal  and  true 
Set  now  thine  hand  to  what  I  bid  thee  do, 


THE  LOVE  OF  ALCESTIS.  317 

Because  I  may  not  die  ;  rake  up  the  brands 
Upon  the  hearth,  and  from  these  trembling  hands 
Cast  incense  thereon,  and  upon  them  lay 
These  shafts,  the  relics  of  a  happier  day, 
Then  watch  with  me  ;  perchance  I  may  not  die, 
Though  the  supremest  hour  now  draws  anigh 
Of  life  or  death  — •  O  thou  who  madest  me, 
The  only  thing  on  earth  alike  to  thee, 
Why  must  I  be  unlike  to  thee  in  this  ? 
Consider,  if  thou  dost  not  do  amiss 
To  slay  the  only  thing  that  feareth  death 
Or  knows  its  name,  of  all  things  drawing  breath 
Upon  the  earth  :  see  now  for  no  short  hour, 
For  no  half-halting  death,  to  reach  me  slower 
Than  other  men,  I  pray  thee  —  what  avail 
To  add  some  trickling  grains  unto  the  tale 
Soon  told,  of  minutes  thou  dost  snatch  away 
From  out  the  midst  of  that  unending  day 
Wherein  thou  dwellest  ?  rather  grant  me  this 
To  right  me  wherein  thou  hast  done  amiss, 
And  give  me  life  like  thine  forevermore. " 

So  murmured  he,  contending  very  sore 
Against  the  coming  death  ;  but  she  meanwhile, 
Faint  with  consuming  love,  made  haste  to  pile 
The  brands  upon  the  hearth,  and  thereon  cast 
Sweet  incense,  and  the  feathered  shafts  at  last ; 
Then,  trembling,  back  unto  the  bed  she  crept, 
And  lay  down  by  his  side,  and  no  more  wept, 
Nay  scarce  could  think  of  death  for  very  love 
That  in  her  faithful  heart  forever  strove 
'Gainst  fear  and  grief ;  but  now  the  incense-cloud 
The  old  familiar  chamber  did  enshroud, 
And  on  the  very  verge  of  death  drawn  close 
Wrapt  both  their  weary  souls  in  strange  repose, 
That  through  sweet  sleep  sent  kindly  images 
Of  simple  things  ;  and  in  the  midst  of  these, 
Whether  it  was  but  parcel  of  their  dream, 
Or  that  they  woke  to  it  as  some  might  deem, 
I  know  not,  but  the  door  was  opened  wide, 
And  the  King's  name  a  voice  long  silent  cried, 
And  Phcebus  on  the  very  threshold  trod, 
And  yet  in  nothing  liker  to  a  god 
That  when  he  ruled  Admetus'  herds,  for  he 
Still  wore  the  homespun  coat  men  used  to  see 
Among  the  heifers  in  the  summer  morn, 


318  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And  round  about  him  hung  the  herdsman's  horn, 
And  in  his  hand  he  bore  the  herdsman's  spear 
And  cornel  bow,  the  prowling  dog-wolfs  fear, 
Though  empty  of  its  shafts  the  quiver  was. 

He  to  the  middle  of  the  room  did  pass, 
And  said,  "  Admetus,  neither  all  for  naught 
My  coming  to  thee  is,  nor  have  I  brought 
Good  tidings  to  thee ;  poor  man,  thou  shall  live 
If  any  soul  for  thee  sweet  life  will  give 
Enforced  by  none  :  for  such  a  sacrifice 
Alone  the  fates  can  deem  a  fitting  price 
For  thy  redemption  ;  in  no  battle-field, 
Maddened  by  hope  of  glory  life  to  yield, 
To  give  it  up  to  heal  no  city's  shame 
In  hope  of  gaining  long-enduring  fame  ; 
For  whoso  dieth  for  thee  must  believe 
That  thou  with  shame  that  last  gift  wilt  receive, 
And  strive  henceforward  with  forgetfulness 
The  honeyed  draught  of  thy  new  life  to  bless. 
Nay,  and  moreover  such  a  glorious  heart, 
Who  loves  thee  well  enough  with  life  to  part 
But  for  thy  love,  with  life  must  lose  love  too, 
Which  e'en  when  wrapped  about  in  weeds  of  woe 
Is  godlike  life  indeed  to  such  an  one. 

"  And  now  behold,  three  days  ere  life  is  done 
Do  the  fates  give  thee,  and  I,  even  I, 
Upon  thy  life  have  shed  felicity 
And  given  thee  love  of  men,  that  they  in  turn 
With  fervent  love  of  thy  dear  love  might  burn. 
The  people  love  thee  and  thy  silk-clad  breast, 
Thine  open  doors  have  given  thee  better  rest 
Than  woods  of  spears  or  hills  of  walls  might  do, 
And  even  now  in  wakefulness  and  woe 
The  city  lies,  calling  to  mind  thy  love, 
Wearying  with  ceaseless  prayers  the  gods  above. 
But  thou  —  thine  heart  is  wise  enough  to  know 
That  they  no  whit  from  their  decrees  will  go." 

So  saying,  swiftly  from  the  room  he  passed ; 
But  on  the  world  no  look  Admetus  cast, 
But  peacefully  turned  round  unto  the  wall 
As  one  who  knows  that  quick  death  must  befall : 
For  in  his  heart  he  thought,  "  Indeed  too  well 
I  know  what  men  are,  this  strange  tale  to  tell 
To  those  that  live  with  me  :  yea,  they  will  weep, 
And  o'er  my  tomb  most  solemn  days  will  keep, 


THE  LOVE   OF  ALCESTIS.  319 

And  in  great  chronicles  will  write  my  name, 
Telling  to  many  an  age  my  deeds  and  fame. 
For  living  men  such  things  as  this  desire, 
And  by  such  ways  will  they  appease  the  fire 
Of  love  and  grief :  but  when  death  comes  to  stare 
Full  in  men's  faces,  and  the  truth  lays  bare, 
How  can  we  then  have  wish  for  anything, 
But  unto  life  that  gives  us  all  to  cling  ? " 

So  said  he,  and  with  closed  eyes  did  await, 
Sleeping  or  waking,  the  decrees  of  fate. 

But  now  Alcestis  rose,  and  by  the  bed 
She  stood,  with  wild  thoughts  passing  through  her  head. 
Dried  were  her  tears,  her  troubled  heart  and  sore 
Throbbed  with  the  anguish  of  her  love  no  more. 
A  strange  look  on  the  dying  man  she  cast, 
Then  covered  up  her  face  and  said,  "  O  past ! 
Past  the  sweet  times  that  I  remember  well ! 
Alas,  that  such  a  tale  my  heart  can  tell ! 
Ah,  how  I  trusted  him  !  what  love  was  mine  ! 
How  sweet  to  feel  his  arms  about  me  twine, 
And  my  heart  beat  with  his !  what  wealth  of  bliss 
To  hear  his  praises  !  all  to  come  to  this, 
That  now  I  durst  not  look  upon  his  face, 
Lest  in  my  heart  that  other  thing  have  place, 
That  which  I  knew  not,  that  which  men  call  hate. 

"  O  me,  the  bitterness  of  God  and  fate  ! 
A  little  time  ago  we  two  were  one  ; 
I  had  not  lost  him  though  his  life  was  done, 
For  still  was  he  in  me  —  but  now  alone 
Through  the  thick  darkness  must  my  soul  make  moan, 
For  I  must  die  :  how  can  I  live  to  bear 
An  empty  heart  about,  the  nurse  of  fear  ? 
How  can  I  live  to  die  some  other  tide, 
And,  dying,  hear  my  loveless  name  outcried 
About  the  portals  of  that  weary  land 
Whereby  my  shadowy  feet  should  come  to  stand. 

"  Alcestis  !  O  Alcestis,  hadst  thou  known 
That  thou  one  day  shouldst  thus  be  left  alone, 
How  hadst  thou  borne  a  living  soul  to  love ! 
Hadst  thou  not  rather  lifted  hands  to  Jove, 
To  turn  thine  heart  to  stone,  thy  front  to  brass, 
That  through  this  wondrous  world  thy  soul  might  pass, 
Well  pleased  and  careless,  as  Diana  goes 
Through  the  thick  woods,  all  pitiless  of  those 
Her  shafts  smite  down  ?     Alas  !  how  could  it  be  ? 


320  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Can  a  god  give  a  god's  delights  to  thee  ? 

Nay  rather,  Jove,  but  give  me  once  again, 

If  for  one  moment  only,  that  sweet  pain 

Of  love  I  had  while  still  I  thought  to  live ! 

Ah  !  wilt  thou  not,  since  unto  thee  I  give 

My  life,  my  hope  ?  —  But  thou  —  I  come  to  thee. 

Thou  sleepest :  O  wake  not,  nor  speak  to  me  ! 

In  silence  let  my  last  hour  pass  away, 

And  men  forget  my  bitter  feeble  day."' 

With  that  she  laid  her  down  upon  the  bed, 
And  nestling  to  him,  kissed  his  weary  head, 
And  laid  his  wasted  hand  upon  her  breast, 
Yet  woke  him  not ;  and  silence  and  deep  rest 
Fell  on  that  chamber.     The  night  wore  away 
Mid  gusts  of  wailing  wind,  the  twilight  gray 
Stole  o'er  the  sea,  and  wrought  his  wondrous  change 
On  things  unseen  by  night,  by  day  not  strange, 
But  now  half  seen  and  strange  ;  then  came  the  sun, 
And  therewithal  the  silent  world  and  dun 
Waking,  waxed  many-colored,  full  of  sound, 
As  men  again  their  heap  of  troubles  found, 
And  woke  up  to  their  joy  or  misery. 

But  there,  unmoved  by  aught,  those  twain  did  lie, 
Until  Admetus'  ancient  nurse  drew  near 
Unto  the  open  door,  and  full  of  fear 
Beheld  them  moving  not,  and  as  folk  dead  ; 
Then,  trembling  with  her  eagerness  and  dread, 
She  cried,  "  Admetus  !  art  thou  dead  indeed? 
Alcestis !  livest  thou  my  words  to  heed  ? 
Alas,  alas,  for  this  Thessalian  folk  ! " 

But  with  her  piercing  cry  the  King  awoke, 
And  round  about  him  wildly  'gan  to  stare, 
As  a  bewildered  man  who  knows  not  where 
He  has  awakened  :  but  not  thin  or  wan 
His  face  was  now,  as  of  a  dying  man, 
But  fresh  and  ruddy  ;  and  his  eyes  shone  clear, 
As  of  a  man  who  much  of  life  may  bear. 
And  at  the  first,  but  joy  and  great  surprise 
Shone  out  from  those  awakened,  new-healed  eyes  ; 
But  as  for  something  more  at  last  he  yearned, 
Unto  his  love  with  troubled  brow  he  turned, 
For  still  she  seemed  to  sleep  :  alas,  alas  ! 
Her  lonely  shadow  even  now  did  pass 
Along  the  changeless  fields,  oft  looking  back, 
As  though  it  yet  had  thought  of  some  great  lack. 


THE  LOVE   OF  ALCESTIS.  321 

And  here,  the  hand  just  fallen  from  off  his  breast 

Was  cold  ;  and  cold  the  bosom  his  hand  pressed. 

And  even  as  the  color  lit  the  day 

The  color  from  her  lips  had  waned  away  ; 

Yet  still,  as  though  that  longed-for  happiness 

Had  come  again  her  faithful  heart  to  bless, 

Those  white  lips  smiled,  unwrinkled  was  her  brow, 

But  of  her  eyes  no  secrets  might  he  know, 

For,  hidden  by  the  lids  of  ivory, 

Had  they  beheld  that  death  a-drawing  nigh. 

Then  o'er  her  dead  corpse  King  Admetus  hung, 
Such  sorrow  in  his  heart  as  his  faint  tongue 
Refused  to  utter ;  yet  the  just-past  night 
But  dimly  he  remembered,  and  the  sight 
Of  the  Far-darter,  and  the  dreadful  word 
That  seemed  to  cut  all  hope  as  with  a  sword  : 
Yet  stronger  in  his  heart  a  knowledge  grew, 
That  naught  it  was  but  her  fond  heart  and  true 
That  all  the  marvel  for  his  love  had  wrought, 
Whereby  from  death  to  life  he  had  been  brought ; 
That  dead,  his  life  she  was,  as  she  had  been 
His  life's  delight  while  still  she  lived  a  queen. 
And  he  fell  wondering  if  his  life  were  gain, 
So  wrapt  as  then  in  loneliness  and  pain  ; 
Yet  therewithal  no  tears  would  fill  his  eyes, 
For  as  a  god  he  was. 

Then  did  he  rise 

And  gat  him  down  unto  the  Council-place, 
And  when  the  people  saw  his  well-loved  face 
Then  cried  aloud  for  joy  to  see  him  there, 
And  earth  again  to  them  seemed  blest  and  fair. 
And  though  indeed  they  did  lament  in  turn, 
When  of  Alcestis'  end  they  came  to  learn, 
Scarce  was  it  more  than  seeming,  or,  at  least, 
The  silence  in  the  middle  of  a  feast, 
When  men  have  memory  of  their  heroes  slain. 
So  passed  the  order  of  the  world  again, 
Victorious  Summer  crowning  lusty  Spring, 
Rich  Autumn  faint  with  wealth  of  harvesting, 
And  Winter  the  earth's  sleep  ;  and  then  again 
Spring,  Summer,  Autumn,  and  the  Winter's  pain ; 
And  still  and  still  the  same  the  years  went  by. 

But  Time,  who  slays  so  many  a  memory, 
Brought  hers  to  light,  the  short-lived  loving  Queen ; 
21 


322  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And  her  fair  soul,  as  scent  of  flowers  unseen, 
Sweetened  the  turmoil  of  long  centuries. 
For  soon,  indeed,  Death  laid  his  hand  on  these, 
The  shouters  round  the  throne  upon  that  day. 
And  for  Admetus,  he,  too,  went  his  way, 
Though  if  he  died  at  all  I  cannot  tell ; 
But  either  on  the  earth  he  ceased  to  dwell, 
Or  else,  oft  born  again,  had  many  a  name. 
But  through  all  lands  of  Greece  Alcestis'  fame 
Grew  greater,  and  about  her  husband's  twined 
Lived,  in  the  hearts  of  far-off  men  enshrined. 
See  I  have  told  her  tale,  though  I  know  not 
What  men  are  dwelling  now  on  that  green  spot 
Anigh  Boebeis,  or  if  Pherae  still, 
With  name  oft  changed  perchance,  adown  the  hill 
Still  shows  its  white  walls  to  the  rising  sun. 
—  The  gods  at  least  remember  what  is  done. 


STRANGE  felt  the  wanderers  at  his  tale,  for  now 
Their  old  desires  it  seemed  once  more  to  show 
Unto  their  altered  hearts,  when  now  the  rest, 
Most  surely  coming,  of  all  things  seemed  best ;  — 
—  Unless,  by  death  perchance  they  yet  might  gain 
Some  space  to  try  such  deeds  as  now  in  vain 
They  heard  of  amidst  stories  of  the  past ; 
Such  deeds  as  they  for  that  wild  hope  had  cast 
From  out  their  hands  —  they  sighed  to  think  of  it, 
And  how  as  deedless  men  they  there  must  sit. 

Yet,  with  the  measured  falling  of  that  rhyme 
Mingled  the  lovely  sights  and  glorious  time, 
Whereby,  in  spite  of  hope  long  passed  away, 
In  spite  of  knowledge  growing  day  by  day 
Of  lives  so  wasted,  in  despite  of  death, 
With  sweet  concent  that  eve  they  drew  their  breath, 
And  scarce  their  own  lives  seemed  to  touch  them  more 
Than  that  dead  Queen's  beside  Boebeis'  shore ; 
Bitter  and  sweet  so  mingled  in  them  both, 
Their  lives  and  that  old  tale,  they  had  been  loath, 
Perchance,  to  have  them  told  another  way.  — 
So  passed  the  sun  from  that  fair  summer  day. 


JUNE.  323 


JUNE  drew  unto  its  end,  the  hot  bright  days 
Now  gat  from  men  as  much  of  blame  as  praise, 
As  rainless  still  they  passed,  without  a  cloud, 
And  growing  gray  at  last,  the  barley  bowed 
Before  the  southeast  wind.     On  such  a  day 
These  folk  amid  the  trellised  roses  lay, 
And  careless  for  a  little  while  at  least, 
Crowned  with  the  mingled  blossoms,  held  their  feast : 
Nor  did  the  garden  lack  for  younger  folk, 
Who  cared  no  more  for  burning  summer's  yoke 
Than  the  sweet  breezes  of  the  April-tide  ; 
But  through  the  thick  trees  wandered  far  and  wide 
From  sun  to  shade,  and  shade  to  sun  again, 
Until  they  deemed  the  elders  would  be  fain 
To  hear  the  tale,  and  shadows  longer  grew  : 
Then  round  about  the  grave  old  men  they  drew, 
Both  youths  and  maidens  ;  and  beneath  their  feet 
The  grass  seemed  greener,  and  the  flowers  more  sweet 
Unto  the  elders,  as  they  stood  around. 

So  through  the  calm  air  soon  arose  the  sound 
Of  one  old  voice  as  now  a  Wanderer  spoke. 
"  O  friends,  and  ye,  fair  loving  gentle  folk, 
Would  I  could  better  tell  a  tale  to-day  ; 
But  hark  to  this,  which  while  our  good  ship  lay 
Within  the  Weser  such  a  while  agone, 
A  Fleming  told  me,  as  we  sat  alone 
One  Sunday  evening  in  the  Rose-garland, 
And  all  the  other  folk  were  gone  a-land 
After  their  pleasure,  like  seafaring  men. 
Surely  I  deem  it  no  great  wonder  then 
That  I  remember  everything  he  said, 
Since  from  that  Sunday  eve  strange  fortune  led 
That  keel  and  me  on  such  a  weary  way  — 
Well,  at  the  least  it  serveth  you  to-day." 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAND. 


ARGUMENT. 

A  CERTAIN  Man  having  landed  on  an  island  in  the  Greek  Sea,  found  there 
a  beautiful  damsel,  whom  he  would  fain  have  delivered  from  a  strange 
and  dreadful  doom,  but  failing  herein,  he  died  soon  afterwards. 

IT  happened  once,  some  men  of  Italy 
Midst  the  Greek  islands  went  a  sea-roving, 
And  much  good  fortune  had  they  on  the  sea: 
Of  many  a  man  they  had  the  ransoming, 
And  many  a  chain  they  gat,  and  goodly  thing ; 
And  midst  their  voyage  to  an  isle  they  came, 
Whereof  my  story  keepeth  not  the  name. 

Now  though  but  little  was  there  left  to  gain, 
Because  the  richer  folk  had  gone  away, 
Yet  since  by  this  of  water  they  were  fain 
They  came  to  anchor  in  a  land-locked  bay, 
Whence  in  a  while  some  went  ashore  to  play, 
Going  but  lightly  armed  in  twos  or  threes, 
For  midst  that  folk  they  feared  no  enemies. 

And  of  these  fellows  that  thus  went  ashore, 
One  was  there  who  left  all  his  friends  behind  ; 
Who  going  inland  ever  more  and  more, 
And  being  left  quite  alone,  at  last  did  find 
A  lonely  valley  sheltered  from  the  wind, 
Wherein,  amidst  an  ancient  cypress  wood, 
A  long-deserted  ruined  castle  stood. 

The  wood,  once  ordered  in  fair  grove  and  glade, 
With  gardens  overlooked  by  terraces, 
And  marble-paved  pools  for  pleasure  made, 
Was  tangled  now,  and  choked  with  fallen  trees ; 
And  he  who  went  there,  with  but  little  ease 
Must  stumble  by  the  stream's  side,  once  made  meet 
For  tender  women's  dainty  wandering  feet. 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAND.  325 

The  raven's  croak,  the  low  wind  choked  and  drear, 
The  baffled  stream,  the  gray  wolf's  doleful  cry, 
Were  all  the  sounds  that  mariner  could  hear, 
As  through  the  wood  he  wandered  painfully ; 
But  as  unto  the  house  he  drew  anigh, 
The  pillars  of  a  ruined  shrine  he  saw, 
The  once  fair  temple  of  a  fallen  law. 

No  image  was  there  left  behind  to  tell 
Before  whose  face  the  knees  of  men  had  bowed  j 
An  altar  of  black  stone,  of  old  wrought  well, 
Alone  beneath  a  ruined  roof  now  showed 
The  goal  whereto  the  folk  were  wont  to  crowd, 
Seeking  for  things  forgotten  long  ago, 
Praying  for  heads  long  ages  laid  a-low. 

Close  to  the  temple  was  the  castle-gate, 
Doorless  and  crumbling ;  there  our  fellow  turned, 
Trembling  indeed  at  what  might  chance  to  wait 
The  prey  entrapped,  yet  with  a  heart  that  burned 
To  know  the  most  of  what  might  there  be  learned, 
And  hoping  somewhat  too,  amid  his  fear, 
To  light  on  such  things  as  all  men  hold  dear. 

Noble  the  house  was,  nor  seemed  built  for  war, 
But  rather  like  the  work  of  other  days, 
When  men,  in  better  peace  than  now  they  are, 
Had  leisure  on  the  world  around  to  gaze, 
And  noted  well  the  past  times'  changing  ways  ; 
And  fair  with  sculptured  stories  it  was  wrought, 
By  lapse  of  time  unto  dim  ruin  brought. 

Now  as  he  looked  about  on  all  these  things, 
And  strove  to  read  the  mouldering  histories, 
Above  the  door  an  image  with  wide  wings, 
Whose  unclad  limbs  a  serpent  seemed  to  seize, 
He  dimly  saw,  although  the  western  breeze, 
And  years  of  biting  frost  and  biting  rain, 
Had  made  the  carver's  labor  wellnigh  vain. 

But  this,  though  perished  sore  and  worn  away, 
He  noted  well,  because  it  seemed  to  be, 
After  the  fashion  of  another  day, 
Some  great  man's  badge  of  war  or  armory, 
And  round  it  a  carved  wreath  he  seemed  to  see  : 


326  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

But  taking  note  of  these  things,  at  the  last 
The  mariner  beneath  the  gateway  passed. 

And  there  a  lovely  cloistered  court  he  found, 
A  fountain  in  the  midst  o'erthrown  and  dry, 
And  in  the  cloister  briers  twining  round 
The  slender  shafts  ;  the  wondrous  imagery 
Outworn  by  more  than  many  years  gone  by, 
Because  the  country  people,  in  their  fear 
Of  wizardry,  had  wrought  destruction  here  ; 

And  piteously  these  fair  things  had  been  maimed  ; 
There  stood  great  Jove  lacking  his  head  of  might ; 
Here  was  the  archer,  swift  Apollo,  lamed  ; 
The  shapely  limbs  of  Venus  hid  from  sight 
By  weeds  and  shards ;  Diana's  ankles  light 
Bound  with  the  cable  of  some  coasting  ship  ; 
And  rusty  nails  through  Helen's  maddening  lip. 

Therefrom  unto  the  chambers  did  he  pass, 
And  found  them  fair  still,  midst  of  their  decay, 
Though  in  them  now  no  sign  of  man  there  was, 
And  everything  but  stone  had  passed  away 
That  made  them  lovely  in  that  vanished  day  ; 
Nay,  the  mere  walls  themselves  would  soon  be  gone, 
And  naught  be  left  but  heaps  of  mouldering  stone. 

But  he,  when  all  the  place  he  had  gone  o'er, 
And  with  much  trouble  clomb  the  broken  stair, 
And  from  the  topmost  turret  seen  the  shore 
And  his  good  ship  drawn  up  at  anchor  there, 
Came  down  again,  and  found  a  crypt  most  fair 
Built  wonderfully  beneath  the  greatest  hall, 
And  there  he  saw  a  door  within  the  wall, 

Well-hinged,  close-shut ;  nor  was  there  in  that  place 
Another  on  its  hinges,  therefore  he 
Stood  there  and  pondered  for  a  little  space, 
And  thought,  "  Perchance  some  marvel  I  shall  see, 
For  surely  here  some  dweller  there  must  be, 
Because  this  door  seems  whole,  and  new,  and  sound, 
While  naught  but  ruin  I  can  see  around." 

So  with  that  word,  moved  by  a  strong  desire, 
He  tried  the  hasp,  that  yielded  to  his  hand, 
And  in  a  strange  place,  lit  as  by  a  fire 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAND.  327 

Unseen  but  near,  he  presently  did  stand  ; 
And  by  an  odorous  breeze  his  face  was  fanned, 
As  though  in  some  Arabian  plain  he  stood, 
Anigh  the  border  of  a  spice-tree  wood. 

He  moved  not  for  a  while,  but  looking  round, 
He  wondered  much  to  see  the  place  so  fair, 
Because,  unlike  the  castle  above  ground, 
No  pillager  or  wrecker  had  been  there  ; 
It  seemed  that  time  had  passed  on  otherwhere, 
Nor  laid  a  finger  on  this  hidden  place, 
Rich  with  the  wealth  of  some  forgotten  race. 

With  hangings.,  fresh  as  when  they  left  the  loom, 
The  walls  were  hung  a  space  above  the  head, 
Slim  ivory  chairs  were  set  about  the  room, 
And  in  one  corner  was  a  dainty  bed, 
That  seemed  for  some  fair  queen  apparelled ; 
And  marble  was  the  worst  stone  of  the  floor, 
That  with  rich  Indian  webs  was  covered  o'er. 

The  wanderer  trembled  when  he  saw  all  this, 
Because  he  deemed  by  magic  it  was  wrought ; 
Yet  in  his  heart  a  longing  for  some  bliss, 
Whereof  the  hard  and  changing  world  knows  naught, 
Arose  and  urged  him  on,  and  dimmed  the  thought 
That  there  perchance  some  devil  lurked  to  slay 
The  heedless  wanderer  from  the  light  of  day. 

Over  against  him  was  another  door 
Set  in  the  wall,  so,  casting  fear  aside, 
With  hurried  steps  he  crossed  the  varied  floor, 
And  there  again  the  silver  latch  he  tried 
And  with  no  pain  the  door  he  opened  wide, 
And  entering  the  new  chamber  cautiously 
The  glory  of  great  heaps  of  gold  could  see. 

Upon  the  floor  uncounted  medals  lay, 
Like  things  of  little  value  ;  here  and  there 
Stood  golden  caldrons,  that  might  well  outweigh 
The  biggest  midst  an  emperor's  copper  ware, 
And  golden  cups  were  set  on  tables  fair, 
Themselves  of  gold  ;  and  in  all  hollow  things 
Were  stored  great  gems,  worthy  the  crowns  of  kings. 

The  walls  and  roof  with  gold  were  overlaid, 
And  precious  raiment  from  the  wall  hung  down  ; 


328  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

The  fall  of  kings  that  treasure  might  have  stayed, 
Or  gained  some  longing  conqueror  great  renown, 
Or  built  again  some  god-destroyed  old  town  ; 
\Vhat  wonder,  if  this  plunderer  of  the  sea 
Stood  gazing  at  it  long  and  dizzily  ? 

But  at  the  last  his  troubled  eyes  and  dazed 
He  lifted  from  the  glory  of  that  gold, 
And  then  the  image,  that  wellnigh  erased 
Over  the  castle-gate  he  did  behold, 
Above  a  door  well  wrought  in  colored  gold 
Again  he  saw  ;  a  naked  girl  with  wings 
Enfolded  in  a  serpent's  scaly  rings. 

And  even  as  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  it 
A  woman's  voice  came  from  the  other  side, 
And  through  his  heart  strange  hopes  began  to  flit 
That  in  some  wondrous  land  he  might  abide 
Not  dying,  master  of  a  deathless  bride, 
So  o'er  the  gold,  he  scarcely  now  could  see, 
He  went,  and  passed  this  last  door  eagerly. 

Then  in  a  room  he  stood  wherein  there  was 
A  marble  bath,  whose  brimming  water  yet 
Was  scarcely  still ;  a  vessel  of  green  glass 
Half  full  of  odorous  ointment  was  there  set 
Upon  the  topmost  step  that  still  was  wet, 
And  jewelled  shoes  and  women's  dainty  gear 
Lay  cast  upon  the  varied  pavement  near. 

In  one  quick  glance  these  things  his  eyes  did  see, 
But  speedily  they  turned  round  to  behold 
Another  sight,  for  throned  on  ivory 
There  sat  a  girl,  whose  dripping  tresses  rolled 
On  to  the  floor  in  waves  of  gleaming  gold, 
Cast  back  from  such  a  form  as,  erewhile  shown 
To  one  poor  shepherd,  lighted  up  Troy  town. 

Naked  she  was,  the  kisses  of  her  feet 
Upon  the  floor  a  dying  path  had  made 
From  the  full  bath  unto  her  ivory  seat ; 
In  her  right  hand,  upon  her  bosom  laid, 
She  held  a  golden  comb,  a  mirror  weighed 
Her  left  hand  down,  aback  her  fair  head  lay 
Dreaming  awake  of  some  long- vanished  day. 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAND.  329 

Her  eyes  were  shut,  but  she  seemed  not  to  sleep, 
Her  lips  were  murmuring  things  unheard  and  low, 
Or  sometimes  twitched  as  though  she  needs  must  weep 
Though  from  her  eyes  the  tears  refused-  to  flow, 
And  oft  with  heavenly  red  her  cheek  did  glow, 
As  if  remembrance  of  some  half-sweet  shame 
Across  the  web  of  many  memories  came. 

There  stood  the  man,  scarce  daring  to  draw  breath 
For  fear  the  lovely  sight  should  fade  away  ; 
Forgetting  heaven,  forgetting  life  and  death, 
Trembling  for  fear  lest  something  he  should  say 
Unwitting,  lest  some  sob  should  yet  betray 
His  presence  there,  for  to  his  eager  eyes 
Already  did  the  tears  begin  to  rise. 

But  as  he  gazed  she  moved,  and  with  a  sigh 
Bent  forward,  dropping  down  her  golden  head ; 
"  Alas,  alas  !  another  day  gone  by, 
Another  day  and  no  soul  come,"  she  said  ; 
"  Another  year,  and  still  I  am  not  dead  !  " 
And  with  that  word  once  more  her  head  she  raised, 
And  on  the  trembling  man  with  great  eyes  gazed. 

Then  he  imploring  hands  to  her  did  reach, 
And  toward  her  very  slowly  'gan  to  move 
And  with  wet  eyes  her  pity  did  beseech, 
And,  seeing  her  about  to  speak,  he  strove 
From  trembling  lips  to  utter  words  of  love ; 
But  with  a  look  she  stayed  his  doubtful  feet. 
And  made  sweet  music  as  their  eyes  did  meet. 

For  now  she  spoke  in  gentle  voice  and  clear, 
Using  the  Greek  tongue  that  he  knew  full  well ; 
"  What  man  art  thou,  that  thus  hast  wandered  here, 
And  found  this  lonely  chamber  where  I  dwell  ? 
Beware,  beware  !  for  I  have  many  a  spell ; 
If  greed  of  power  and  gold  have  led  thee  on, 
Not  lightly  shall  this  untold  wealth  be  won. 

"  But  if  thou  com'st  here,  knowing  of  my  tale, 
In  hope  to  bear  away  my  body  fair, 
Stout  must  thine  heart  be,  nor  shall  that  avail 
If  thou  a  wicked  heart  in  thee  dost  bear  ; 
So  once  again  I  bid  thee  to  beware, 
Because  no  base  man  things  like  this  may  see, 
And  live  thereafter  long  and  happily." 


330  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

"  Lady,"  he  said,  "  in  Florence  is  my  home, 
And  in  my  city  noble  is  my  name ; 
Neither  on  peddling  voyage  am  I  come, 
But,  like  my  fathers,  bent  to  gather  fame  ; 
And  though  thy  face  has  set  my  heart  aflame 
Yet  of  thy  story  nothing  do  I  know, 
But  here  have  wandered  heedlessly  enow. 

"  But  since  the  sight  of  thee  mine  eyes  did  bless, 
What  can  I  be  but  thine  ?  what  wouldst  thou  have  ? 
From  those  thy  words,  I  deem  from  some  distress 
By  deeds  of  mine  thy  dear  life  I  might  save  ; 
O  then,  delay  not !  if  one  ever  gave 
His  life  to  any,  mine  I  give  to  thee  ; 
Come,  tell  me  what  the  price  of  love  must  be  ? 

"  Swift  death,  to  be  with  thee  a  day  and  night 
And  with  the  earliest  dawning  to  be  slain  ? 
Or  better,  a  long  year  of  great  delight, 
And  many  years  of  misery  and  pain  ? 
Or  worse,  and  this  poor  hour  for  all  my  gain  ? 
A  sorry  merchant  am  I  on  this  day, 
E'en  as  thou  wiliest  so  must  I  obey. " 

She  said,  "  What  brave  words  !  naught  divine  am  I, 
But  an  unhappy  and  unheard-of  maid 
Compelled  by  evil  fate  and  destiny 
To  live,  who  long  ago  should  have  been  laid 
Under  the  earth  within  the  cypress  shade. 
Hearken  awhile,  and  quickly  shalt  thou  know 
What  deed  I  pray  thee  to  accomplish  now. 

"  God  grant  indeed  thy  words  are  not  for  naught! 
Then  shalt  thou  save  me,  since  for  many  a  day 
To  such  a  dreadful  life  I  have  been  brought : 
Nor  will  I  spare  with  all  my  heart  to  pay 
What  man  soever  takes  my  grief  away  ; 
Ah !  I  will  love  thee,  if  thou  lovest  me 
But  well  enough  my  savior  now  to  be. 

"  My  father  lived  a  many  years  agone 
Lord  of  this  land,  master  of  all  cunning, 
Who  ruddy  gold  could  draw  from  out  gray  stone, 
And  gather  wealth  from  many  an  uncouth  thing, 
He  made  the  wilderness  rejoice  and  sing, 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAND.  331 

And  such  a  leech  he  was  that  none  could  say 
Without  his  word  what  soul  should  pass  away. 

"  Unto  Diana  such  a  gift  he  gave, 
Goddess  above,  below,  and  on  the  earth, 
That  I  should  be  her  virgin  and  her  slave 
From  the  first  hour  of  my  most  wretched  birth  ; 
Therefore  my  life  had  known  but  little  mirth 
When  I  had  come  unto  my  twentieth  year 
And  the  last  time  of  hallowing  drew  anear. 

"  So  in  her  temple  had  I  lived  and  died 
And  all  would  long  ago  have  passed  away, 
But  ere  that  time  came,  did  strange  things  betide, 
Whereby  I  am  alive  unto  this  day  ; 
Alas,  the  bitter  words  that  I  must  say  ! 
Ah  !  can  I  bring  my  wretched  tongue  to  tell 
How  I  was  brought  unto  this  fearful  hell? 

"  A  queen  I  was,  what  gods  I  knew  I  loved, 
And  nothing  evil  was  there  in  my  thought, 
And  yet  by  love  my  wretched  heart  was  moved 
Until  to  utter  ruin  I  was  brought ! 
Alas  !  thou  sayest  our  gods  were  vain  and  naught, 
Wait,  wait,  till  thou  hast  heard  this  tale  of  mine, 
Then  shall  thou  think  them  devilish  or  divine. 

"  Hearken  !  in  spite  of  father  and  of  vow 
I  loved  a  man  ;  but  for  that  sin  I  think 
Men  had  forgiven  me  — -  yea,  yea,  even  thou ; 
But  from  the  gods  the  full  cup  must  I  drink, 
And  into  misery  unheard  of  sink, 
Tormented  when  their  own  names  are  forgot, 
And  men  must  doubt  if  they  e'er  lived  or  not. 

"  Glorious  my  lover  was  unto  my  sight, 
Most  beautiful,  —  of  love  we  grew  so  fain 
That  we  at  last  agreed,  that  on  a  night 
We  should  be  happy,  but  that  he  were  slain 
Or  shut  in  hold,  and  neither  joy  nor  pain 
Should  else  forbid  that  hoped-for  time  to  be  ; 
So  came  the  night  that  made  a  wretch  of  me. 

"  Ah  !  well  do  I  remember  all  that  night, 
When  through  the  window  shone  the  orb  of  June, 
And  by  the  bed  nickered  the  taper's  light, 


332  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Whereby  I  trembled,  gazing  at  the  moon  : 
Ah  me  !  the  meeting  that  we  had,  when  soon 
Into  his  strong,  well-trusted  arms  I  fell, 
And  many  a  sorrow  we  began  to  tell. 

"  Ah  me  !  what  parting  on  that  night  we  had  ! 
I  think  the  story  of  my  great  despair 
A  little  while  might  merry  folk  make  sad ; 
For,  as  he  swept  away  my  yellow  hair 
To  make  my  shoulder  and  my  bosom  bare, 
I  raised  mine  eyes,  and  shuddering  could  behold 
A  shadow  cast  upon  the  bed  of  gold  : 

"  Then  suddenly  was  quenched  my  hot  desire 
And  he  untwined  his  arms  ;  the  moon,  so  pale 
A  while  ago,  seemed  changed  to  blood  and  fire, 
And  yet  my  limbs  beneath  me  did  not  fail, 
And  neither  had  I  strength  to  cry  or  wail, 
But  stood  there  helpless,  bare,  and  shivering, 
With  staring  eyes  still  fixed  upon  the  thing. 

,    "  Because  the  shade  that  on  the  bed  of  gold 

The  changed  and  dreadful  moon  was  throwing  down 

Was  of  Diana,  whom  I  did  behold, 

With  knotted  hair,  and  shining  girt-up  gown, 

And  on  the  high  white  brow,  a  deadly  frown 

Bent  upon  us,  who  stood  scarce  drawing  breath, 

Striving  to  meet  the  horrible  sure  death. 

"  No  word  at  all  the  dreadful  goddess  said, 
But  soon  across  my  feet  my  lover  lay, 
And  well  indeed  I  knew  that  he  was  dead  ; 
And  would  that  I  had  died  on  that  same  day ! 
Fox  in  a  while  the  image  turned  away, 
And  without  words  my  doom  I  understood, 
And  felt  a  horror  change  my  natural  blood. 

"  And  there  I  fell,  and  on  the  floor  I  lay 
By  the  dead  man,  till  daylight  came  on  me, 
And  not  a  word  thenceforward  could  I  say 
For  three  years,  till  of  grief  and  misery, 
The  lingering  pest,  the  cruel  enemy, 
My  father  and  his  folk  were  dead  and  gone, 
And  in  this  castle  I  was  left  alone : 

"  And  then  the  doom  foreseen  upon  me  fell, 
For  Queen  Diana  did  my  body  change 


THE  LADY  OF   THE  LAND.  333 

Into  a  fork-tongued  dragon  flesh  and  fell, 
And  through  the  island  nightly  do  I  range, 
Or  in  the  green  sea  mate  with  monsters  strange, 
When  in  the  middle  of  the  moonlit  night 
The  sleepy  mariner  I  do  afright. 

"  But  all  day  long  upon  this  gold  I  lie 
Within  this  place,  where  never  mason's  hand 
Smote  trowel  on  the  marble  noisily ; 
Drowsy  I  lie,  no  folk  at  my  command, 
Who  once  was  called  the  Lady  of  the  Land  ; 
Who  might  have  bought  a  kingdom  with  a  kiss, 
Yea,  half  the  world  with  such  a  sight  as  this." 

And  therewithal,  with  rosy  fingers  light, 
Backward  her  heavy-hanging  hair  she  threw, 
To  give  her  naked  beauty  more  to  sight ; 
But  when,  forgetting  all  the  things  he  knew, 
Maddened  with  love  unto  the  prize  he  drew, 
She  cried,  ' '  Nay,  wait !  for  wherefore  wilt  thou  die, 
Why  should  we  not  be  happy,  thou  and  I  ? 

"  Wilt  thou  not  save  me  ?  once  in  every  year 
This  rightful  form  of  mine  that  thou  dost  see 
By  favor  of  the  goddess  have  I  here 
From  sunrise  unto  sunset  given  me, 
That  some  brave  man  may  end  my  misery. 
And  thou  —  art  thou  not  brave  ?  can  thy  heart  fail, 
Whose  eyes  e'en  now  are  weeping  at  my  tale  ? 

"  Then  listen  !  when  this  day  is  overpast, 
A  fearful  monster  shall  I  be  again, 
And  thou  may'st  be  my  savior  at  the  last, 
Unless,  once  more,  thy  words  are  naught  and  vain  ; 
If  thou  of  love  and  sovereignty  art  fain, 
Come  thou  next  morn,  and  when  thou  seest  here 
A  hideous  dragon,  have  thereof  no  fear, 

"  But  take  the  loathsome  head  up  in  thine  hands, 
And  kiss  it,  and  be  master  presently 
Of  twice  the  wealth  that  is  in  all  the  lands, 
From  Cathay  to  the  head  of  Italy  ; 
And  master  also,  if  it  pleaseth  thee, 
Of  all  thou  praisest  as  so  fresh  and  bright, 
Of  what  thou  callest  crown  of  all  delight. 


334  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

"  Ah  !  with  what  joy  then  shall  I  see  again 
The  sunlight  on  the  green  grass  and  the  trees, 
And  hear  the  clatter  of  the  summer  rain, 
And  see  the  joyous  folk  beyond  the  seas. 
Ah,  me  !  to  hold  my  child  upon  my  knees, 
After  the  weeping  of  unkindly  tears, 
And  all  the  wrongs  of  these  four  hundred  years. 

"  Go  now,  go  quick  !  leave  this  gray  heap  of  stone  ; 
And  from  thy  glad  heart  think  upon  thy  way 
How  I  shall  love  thee  —  yea,  love  thee  alone, 
That  bringest  me  from  dark  death  unto  day ; 
For  this  shall  be  thy  wages  and  thy  pay  ; 
Unheard-of  wealth,  unheard-of  love  is  near, 
If  thou  hast  heart  a  little  dread  to  bear." 

Therewith  she  turned  to  go  ;  but  he  cried  out, 
"  Ah !  wilt  thou  leave  me  then  without  one  kiss, 
To  slay  the  very  seeds  of  doubt  and  feat, 
That  glad  to-morrow  may  bring  certain  bliss  ? 
Hast  thou  forgotten  how  love  lives  by  this, 
The  memory  of  some  hopeful  close  embrace, 
Low  whispered  words  within  some  lonely  place  ?  " 

But  she,  when  his  bright  glittering  eyes  she  saw, 
And  burning  cheeks,  cried  out,  "  Alas,  alas  ! 
Must  I  be  quite  undone,  and  wilt  thou  draw 
A  worse  fate  on  me  than  the  first  one  was  ? 
O  haste  thee  from  this  fatal  place  to  pass  ! 
Yet,  ere  thou  goest,  take  this,  lest  thou  shouldst  deem 
Thou  hast  been  fooled  by  some  strange  midday  dream." 

So  saying,  blushing  like  a  new-kissed  maid, 
From  off  her  neck  a  little  gem  she  drew, 
That,  'twixt  those  snowy  rose-tinged  hillocks  laid, 
The  secrets  of  her  glorious  beauty  knew ; 
And,  ere  he  well  perceived  what  she  would  do, 
She  touched  his  hand,  the  gem  within  it  lay, 
And,  turning,  from  his  sight  she  fled  away. 

Then  at  the  doorway  where  her  rosy  heel 
Had  glanced  and  vanished,  he  awhile  did  stare, 
And  still  upon  his  hand  he  seemed  to  feel 
The  varying  kisses  of  her  fingers  fair  ; 
Then  turned  he  toward  the  dreary  crypt  and  bare, 
And  dizzily  throughout  the  castle  passed, 
Till  by  the  ruined  fane  he  stood  at  last. 


THE   LADY  OF   THE  LAND.  335 

Then  weighing  still  the  gem  within  his  hand, 
He  stumbled  backward  through  the  cypress  wood, 
Thinking  the  while  of  some  strange  lovely  land, 
Where  all  his  life  should  be  most  fair  and  good  ; 
Till  on  the  valley's  wall  of  hills  he  stood, 
And  slowly  thence  passed  down  unto  the  bay 
Red  with  the  death  of  that  bewildering  day. 


'""T^HE  next  day  came,  and  he,  who  all  the  night 

_L      Had  ceaselessly  been  turning  in  his  bed, 
Arose  and  clad  himself  in  armor  bright, 
And  many  a  danger  he  remembered  ; 
Storming  of  towns,  lone  sieges  full  of  dread, 
That  with  renown  his  heart  had  borne  him  through, 
And  this  thing  seemed  a  little  thing  to  do. 

So  on  he  went,  and  on  the  way  he  thought 
Of  all  the  glorious  things  of  yesterday. 
Naught  of  the  price  whereat  they  must  be  bought, 
But  ever  to  himself  did  softly  say, 
"  No  roaming  now,  my  wars  are  passed  away, 
No  long  dull  days  devoid  of  happiness, 
When  such  a  love  my  yearning  heart  shall  bless. " 

Thus  to  the  castle  did  he  come  at  last, 
But  when  unto  the  gateway  he  drew  near, 
And  underneath  its  ruined  archway  passed 
Into  the  court,  a  strange  noise  did  he  hear, 
And  through  his  heart  there  shot  a  pang  of  fear, 
Trembling,  he  gat  his  sword  into  his  hand, 
And  midmost  of  the  cloisters  took  his  stand. 

But  for  a  while  that  unknown  noise  increased 
A  rattling,  that  with  strident  roars  did  blend, 
And  whining  moans  ;  but  suddenly  it  ceased, 
A  fearful  thing  stood  at  the  cloister's  end, 
And  eyed  him  for  a  while,  then  'gan  to  wend 
A  down  the  cloisters,  and  began  again 
That  rattling,  and  the  moan  like  fiends  in  pain. 

And  as  it  came  on  towards  him,  with  its  testh 
The  body  of  a  slain  goat  did  it  tear, 
The  blood  whereof  in  its  hot  jaws  did  seethe, 
And  on  its  tongue  he  saw  the  smoking  hair ; 


336  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Then  his  heart  sank,  and  standing  trembling  there, 
Throughout  his  mind  wild  thoughts  and  fearful  ran, 
"  Some  fiend  she  was,"  he  said,  "  the  bane  of  man." 

Yet  he  abode  her  still,  although  his  blood 
Curdled  within  him  :  the  thing  dropped  the  goat, 
And  creeping  on,  came  close  to  where  he  stood, 
And  raised  its  head  to  him  and  wrinkled  throat, 
Then  he  cried  out  and  wildly  at  her  smote, 
Shutting  his  eyes,  and  turned  and  from  the  place 
Ran  swiftly  with  a  white  and  ghastly  face. 

But  little  things  rough  stones  and  tree-trunks  seemed, 
And  if  he  fell,  he  rose  and  ran  on  still ; 
No  more  he  felt  his  hurts  than  if  he  dreamed, 
He  made  no  stay  for  valley  or  steep  hill, 
Heedless  he  dashed  through  many  a  foaming  rill, 
Until  he  came  unto  the  ship  at  last, 
And  with  no  word  into  the  deep  hold  passed. 

Meanwhile  the  dragon,  seeing  him  clean  gone, 
Followed  him  not,  but  crying  horribly, 
Caught  up  within  her  jaws  a  block  of  stone 
And  ground  it  into  powder,  then  turned  she, 
With  cries  that  folk  could  hear  far  out  at  sea, 
And  reached  the  treasure  set  apart  of  old, 
To  brood  above  the  hidden  heaps  of  gold. 

Yet  was  she  seen  again  on  many  a  day 
By  some  half-waking  mariner,  or  herd, 
Playing  amid  the  ripples  of  the  bay, 
Or  on  the  hills,  making  all  things  afeard, 
Or  in  the  wood  that  did  that  castle  gird, 
But  never  any  man  again  durst  go 
To  seek  her  woman's  form,  and  end  her  woe. 

As  for  the  man,  who  knows  what  things  he  bore  ? 
What  mournful  faces  peopled  the  sad  night, 
What  wailings  vexed  him  with  reproaches  sore, 
What  images  of  that  nigh-gained  delight ! 
What  dreamed  caresses  from  soft  hands  and  white, 
Turning  to  horrors  ere  they  reached  the  best, 
What  struggles  vain,  what  shame,  what  huge  unrest  ? 

No  man  he  knew,  three  days  he  lay  and  raved, 
And  cried  for  death,  until  a  lethargy 


JUNE.  337 

Fell  on  him,  and  his  fellows  thought  him  saved ; 
But  on  the  third  night  he  awoke  to  die ; 
And  at  Byzantium  doth  his  body  lie 
Between  two  blossoming  pomegranate  trees, 
Within  the  churchyard  of  the  Genoese. 


A  MOMENT'S  silence  as  his  tale  had  end, 
And  then  the  wind  of  that  June  night  did  blend 
Their  varied  voices,  as  of  that  and  this 
They  fell  to  talk  :  of  those  fair  islands'  bliss 
They  knew  in  other  days,  of  hope  they  had 
To  live  there  long  an  easy  life  and  glad, 
With  naught  to  vex  them  ;  and  the  younger  men 
Began  to  nourish  strange  dreams  even  then 
Of  sailing  east,  as  these  had  once  sailed  west ; 
Because  the  story  of  that  luckless  quest 
With  hope,  not  fear,  had  filled  their  joyous  hearts, 
And  made  them  dream  of  new  and  noble  parts 
That  they  might  act ;  of  raising  up  the  name 
Their  fathers  bore,  and  winning  boundless  fame. 
These  too  with  little  patience  seemed  to  hear 
That  story  end  with  shame  and  grief  and  fear  ; 
A  little  thing  the  man  had  had  to  do, 
They  said,  if  longing  burned  within  him  so. 
But  at  their  words  the  older  men  must  bow 
Their  heads,  and,  smiling,  somewhat  thoughtful  grow, 
Remembering  well  how  fear  in  days  gone  by 
Had  dealt  with  them,  and  poisoned  wretchedly 
Good  days,  good  deeds,  and  longings  for  all  good  : 
Yet  on  the  evil  times  they  would  not  brood, 
But  sighing,  strove  to  raise  the  weight  of  years, 
And  no  more  memory  of  their  hopes  and  fears 
They  nourished,  but  such  gentle  thoughts  as  fed 
The  pensiveness  the  lovely  season  bred. 


22 


338  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 


JULY. 

FAIR  was  the  morn  to-day,  the  blossom's  scent 
Floated  across  the  fresh  grass,  and  the  bees 
With  low  vexed  song  from  rose  to  lily  went, 
A  gentle  wind  was  in  the  heavy  trees, 
And  thine  eyes  shone  with  joyous  memories  ; 
Fair  was  the  early  morn,  and  fair  wert  thou, 
And  I  was  happy  —  Ah,  be  happy  now ! 

Peace  and  content  without  us,  love  within, 
That  hour  there  was,  now  thunder  and  wild  rain 
Have  wrapped  the  cowering  world,  and  foolish  sin 
And  nameless  pride  have  made  us  wise  in  vain  ; 
Ah,  love  !  although  the  morn  shall  come  again, 
And  on  new  rose-buds  the  new  sun  shall  smile, 
Can  we  regain  what  we  have  lost  meanwhile  ? 

E'en  now  the  west  grows  clear  of  storm  and  threat, 
But  midst  the  lightning  did  the  fair  sun  die  — 
Ah !  he  shall  rise  again  for  ages  yet, 
He  cannot  waste  his  life  —  but  thou  and  I  — 
Who  knows  if  next  morn  this  felicity 
My  lips  may  feel,  or  if  thou  still  shall  live 
This  seal  of  love  renewed  once  more  to  give  ? 


JULY.  339 


WITHIN  a  lovely  valley,  watered  well 
With  flowery  streams,  the  July  feast  befell, 
And  there  within  the  Chief-priest's  fair  abode 
They  cast  aside  their  trouble's  heavy  load, 
Scarce  made  aweary  by  the  sultry  day. 
The  earth  no  longer  labored ;  shaded  lay 
The  sweet-breathed  kine,  across  the  sunny  vale, 
From  hill  to  hill  the  wandering  rook  did  sail, 
Lazily  croaking,  midst  his  dreams  of  spring, 
Nor  more  awake  the  pink-foot  dove  did  cling 
Unto  the  beech-bough,  murmuring  now  and  then  ; 
All  rested  but  the  restless  sons  of  men, 
And  the  great  sun,  that  wrought  this  happiness 
And  all  the  vale  with  fruitful  hopes  did  bless. 

So  in  a  marble  chamber  bright  with  flowers, 
The  old  men  feasted  through  the  fresher  hours, 
And  at  the  hottest  time  of  all  the  day, 
When  now  the  sun  was  on  his  downward  way, 
Sat  listening  to  a  tale  an  elder  told, 
New  to  his  fathers  while  they  yet  did  hold 
The  cities  of  some  far-off  Grecian  isle, 
Though  in  the  heavens  the  cloud  of  force  and  guile 
Was  gathering  dark  that  sent  them  o'er  the  sea 
To  win  new  lands  for  their  posterity. 


THE  SON  OF  CROESUS. 


ARGUMENT. 

CRCESUS,  king  of  Lydia,  dreamed  that  he  saw  his  Son  slain  by  an  irom 
weapon,  and  though  by  every  means  he  strove  to  avert  this  doom  from 
him,  yet  thus  it  happened,  for  his  Son  was  slain  by  the  hand  of  the  man 
who  seemed  least  of  all  likely  to  do  the  deed. 

OF  Croesus  tells  my  tale,  a  king  of  old 
In  Lydia,  ere  the  Mede  fell  on  the  land, 
A  man  made  mighty  by  great  heaps  of  gold, 
Feared  for  the  myriads  strong  of  heart  and  hand 
That  'neath  his  banners  wrought  out  his  command, 
And  though  his  latter  ending  fell  to  ill, 
Yet  first  of  every  joy  he  had  his  fill. 

Two  sons  he  had,  and  one  was  dumb  from  birth  ; 
The  other  one,  that  Atys  had  to  name, 
Grew  up  a  fair  youth,  and  of  might  and  worth, 
And  well  it  seemed  the  race  wherefrom  he  came 
From  him  should  never  get  reproach  or  shame ; 
But  yet  no  stroke  he  struck  before  his  death, 
In  no  war-shout  he  spent  his  latest  breath. 

Now  Croesus,  lying  on  his  bed  a-night, 
Dreamed  that  he  saw  this  dear  son  lying  low, 
And  folk  lamenting  he  was  slain  outright, 
And  that  some  iron  thing  had  dealt  the  blow ; 
By  whose  hand  guided  he  could  nowise  know, 
Or  if  in  peace  by  traitors  it  were  done, 
Or  in  some  open  war  not  yet  begun. 

Three  times  one  night  this  vision  broke  his  sleep, 
So  that  at  last  he  rose  up  from  his  bed, 
That  he  might  ponder  how  he  best  might  keep 
The  threatened  danger  from  so  dear  a  head  ; 
And,  since  he  now  was  old  enough  to  wed, 
The  King  sent  men  to  search  the  lands  around, 
Until  some  matchless  maiden  should  be  found  ; 


THE  SON  OF  CRCESUS.  341 

That  in  her  arms  this  Atys  might  forget 
The  praise  of  men,  and  fame  of  history, 
Whereby  full  many  a  field  has  been  made  wet 
With  blood  of  men,  and  many  a  deep  green  sea 
Been  reddened  therewithal,  and  yet  shall  be  ; 
That  her  sweet  voice  might  drown  the  people's  praise, 
Her  eyes  make  bright  the  uneventful  days. 

So  when  at  last  a  wonder  they  had  brought, 
From  some  sweet  land  down  by  the  ocean's  rim, 
Than  whom  no  fairer  could  by  man  be  thought, 
And  ancient  dames,  scanning  her  limb  by  limb, 
Had  said  that  she  was  fair  enough  for  him, 
To  her  was  Atys  married  with  much  show, 
And  looked  to  dwell  with  her  in  bliss  enow. 

And  in  meantime  afield  he  never  went, 
Either  to  hunting  or  the  frontier  war, 
No  dart  was  cast,  nor  any  engine  bent 
Anigh  him,  and  the  Lydian  men  afar 
Must  rein  their  steeds,  and  the  bright  blossoms  mar, 
If  they  have  any  lust  of  tourney  now, 
And  in  far  meadows  must  they  bend  the  bow. 

And  also  through  the  palace  everywhere 
The  swords  and  spears  were  taken  from  the  wall 
That  long  with  honor  had  been  hanging  there, 
And  from  the  golden  pillars  of  the  hall  ; 
Lest  by  mischance  some  sacred  blade  should  fall, 
And  in  its  falling  bring  revenge  at  last 
For  many  a  fatal  battle  overpast. 

And  every  day  King  Croesus  wrought  with  care 
To  save  his  dear  son  from  that  threatened  end, 
And  many  a  beast  he  offered  up  with  prayer 
Unto  the  gods,  and  much  of  wealth  did  spend, 
That  they  so  prayed  might  yet  perchance  defend 
That  life,  until  at  least  that  he  were  dead, 
With  earth  laid  heavy  on  his  unseen  head. 

But  in  the  midst  even  of  the  wedding  feast 
There  came  a  man,  who  by  the  golden  hall 
Sat  down  upon  the  steps,  and  man  or  beast 
He  heeded  not,  but  there  against  the  wall 
He  leaned  his  head,  speaking  no  word  at  all, 


342  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Till,  with  his  son  and  son's  wife,  came  the  King, 
And  then  unto  his  gown  the  man  did  cling. 

"  What  man  art  thou  ?  "  the  King  said  to  him  then, 
"  That  in  such  guise  thou  prayest  on  thy  knee  ; 
Hast  thou  some  fell  foe  here  among  my  men  ? 
Or  hast  thou  done  an  ill  deed  unto  me  ? 
Or  has  thy  wife  been  carried  over  sea  ? 
Or  hast  thou  on  this  day  great  need  of  gold  ? 
Or  say  why  else  thou  now  art  grown  so  bold." 

"  O  King,"  he  said,  "  I  ask  no  gold  to-day, 
And  though  indeed  thy  greatness  drew  me  here, 
No  wrong  have  I  that  thou  ~ould'st  wipe  away  ; 
And  naught  of  mine  the  pirate  folk  did  bear 
Across  the  sea  ;  none  of  thy  folk  I  fear  : 
But  all  the  gods  are  now  mine  enemies, 
Therefore  I  kneel  before  thee  on  my  knees. 

"  For  as  with  mine  own  brother  on  a  day 
Within  the  running  place  at  home  I  played, 
Unwittingly  I  smote  him  in  such  way 
That  dead  upon  the  green  grass  he  was  laid  ; 
Half  dead  myself  I  fled  away  dismayed, 
Wherefore  I  pray  thee  help  me  in  my  need, 
And  purify  my  soul  of  this  sad  deed. 

"  If  of  my  name  and  country  thou  wouldst  know, 
In  Phrygia  yet  my  father  is  a  king, 
Gordius,  the  son  of  Midas,  rich  enow 
In  corn  and  cattle,  golden  cup  and  ring ; 
And  mine  own  name  before  I  did  this  thing 
Was  called  Adrastus,  whom,  in  street  and  hall, 
The  slayer  of  his  brother  men  now  call." 

"  Friend,"  said  the  King,  "have  thou  no  fear  of  me  ; 
For  though,  indeed,  I  am  right  happy  now, 
Yet  well  I  know  this  may  not  always  be, 
And  I  may  chance  some  day  to  kneel  full  low, 
And  to  some  happy  man  mine  head  to  bow 
With  prayers  to  do  a  greater  thing  than  this, 
Dwell  thou  with  us  and  win  again  thy  bliss. 

"  For  in  this  city  men  in  sport  and  play 
Forget  the  trouble  that  the  gods  have  sent ; 
Who  therewithal  send  wine,  and  many  a  may 


THE  SON  OF  CRCESUS.  343 

As  fair  as  she  for  whom  the  Trojan  went, 
And  many  a  dear  delight  besides  have  lent, 
Which,  whoso  is  well  loved  of  them  shall  keep 
Till  in  forgetful  death  he  falls  asleep. 

"  Therefore  to-morrow  shall  those  rites  be  done 
That  kindred  blood  demands  ttiat  thou  hast  shed, 
That  if  the  mouth  of  thine  own  mother's  son 
Did  hap  to  curse  thee  ere  he  was  quite  dead, 
The  curse  may  lie  the  lighter  on  thy  head, 
Because  the  flower-crowned  head  of  many  a  beast 
Has  fallen  voiceless  in  our  glorious  feast" 

Then  did  Adrastus  rise  and  thank  the  King, 
And  the  next  day  when  yet  low  was  the  sun, 
The  sacrifice  and  every  other  thing 
That  unto  these  dread  rites  belonged,  was  done ; 
And  there  Adrastus  dwelt,  hated  of  none,  ^ 
And  loved  of  many,  and  the  King  loved  him, 
For  brave  and  wise  he  was  and  strong  of  limb. 

But  chiefly  amongst  all  did  Atys  love 
The  luckless  stranger,  whose  fair  tales  of  war 
The  Lydian's  heart  abundantly  did  move, 
And  much  they  talked  of  wandering  afar 
S  >me  day  to  lands  where  many  marvels  are, 
With  still-the  Phrygian  through  all  things  to  be 
The  leader  unto  all  felicity. 

Now  at  this  time  folk  came  unto  the  King 
Who  on  a  forest's  borders  dwelling  were, 
Wherein  there  roamed  full  many  a  dangerous  thing, 
As  wolf  and  wild  bull,  lion  and  brown  bear  ; 
But  chiefly  in  that  forest  was  the  lair 
Of  a  great  boar  that  no  man  could  withstand, 
And  many  a  woe  he  wrought  upon  the  land. 

Since  long  ago  that  men  in  Calydon 
Held  chase,  no  beast  like  him  had  once  been  seen ; 
He  ruined  vineyards  lying  in  the  sun  ; 
After  his  harvesting  the  men  must  glean 
What  he  had  left,  right  glad  they  had  not  been 
Among  the  tall  stalks  of  the  ripening  wheat, 
The  fell  destroyer's  fatal  tusks  to  meet. 

For  often  would  the  lonely  man  entrapped 
In  vain  from  his  dire  fury  strive  to  hide 


344  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

In  some  thick  hedge,  and  other  whiles  it  happed 
Some  careless  stranger  by  his  place  would  ride, 
And  the  tusks  smote  his  fallen  horse's  side, 
And  what  help  then  to  such  a  wretch  could  come 
With  sword  he  could  not  draw,  and  far  from  home  ? 

Or  else  girls,  sent  their  water-jars  to  fill, 
Would  come  back  pale,  too  terrified  to  cry, 
Because  they  had  but  seen  him  from  the  hill ; 
Or  else  again,  with  side  rent  wretchedly, 
Some  hapless  damsel  midst  the  brake  would  lie. 
Shortly  to  say,  there  neither  man  nor  maid 
Was  safe  afield  whether  they  wrought  or  played. 

Therefore  were  come  these  dwellers  by  the  wood 
To  pray  the  King  brave  me»  to  them  to  send, 
That  they  might  live  ;  and  if  he  deemed  it  good, 
That  Atys  with  the  other  knights  should  wend, 
They  thought  their  grief  the  easier  should  have  end ; 
For  both  by  gods  and  men  they  knew  him  loved, 
And  easily  by  hope  of  glory  moved. 

"  O  Sire,"  they  said,  "  thou  know'st  how  Hercules 
Was  not  content  to  wait  till  folk  asked  aid, 
But  sought  the  pests  among  their  guarded  trees  j 
Thou  know'st  what  name  the  Theban  Cadmus  made, 
And  how  the  bull  of  Marathon  was  laid 
Dead  on  the  fallows  of  the  Athenian  land, 
And  how  folk  worshipped  Atalanta's  hand. 

"  Fair  would  thy  son's  name  look  upon  the  roll 
Wherein  such  noble  deeds  as  this  are  told  ; 
And  great  delight  shall  surely  fill  thy  soul, 
Thinking  upon  his  deeds  when  thou  art  old, 
And  thy  brave  heart  is  waxen  faint  and  cold  : 
Dost  thou  not  know,  O  King,  how  men  will  strive 
That  they,  when  dead,  still  in  their  sons  may  live  ?  " 

He  shuddered  as  they  spoke,  because  he  thought, 
Most  certainly  a  winning  tale  is  this 
To  draw  him  from  the  net  where  he  is  caught, 
For  hearts  of  men  grow  weary  of  all  bliss  ; 
Nor  is  he  one  to  be  content  with  his, 
If  he  should  hear  the  trumpet-blast  of  fame 
And  far-off  people  calling  on  his  name. 


THE  SON  OF  CRCESUS.  345 

"  Good  friends,"  he  said,  "go,  get  ye  back  again, 
And  doubt  not  I  will  send  you  men  to  slay 
This  pest  ye  fear  :  yet  shall  your  prayer  be  vain 
If  ye  with  any  other  speak  to-day  ; 
And  for  my  son,  with  me  he  needs  must  stay, 
For  mighty  cares  oppress  the  Lydian  land. 
Fear  not,  for  ye  shall  have  a  noble  band. " 

And  with  that  promise  must  they  be  content, 
And  so  departed,  having  feasted  well. 
And  yet  some  god  or  other  ere  they  went, 
If  they  were  silent,  this  their  tale  must  tell 
To  more  than  one  man  ;  therefore  it  befell, 
That  at  the  last  Prince  Atys  knew  the  thing, 
And  came  with  angry  eyes  unto  the  King. 

"  Father,"  he  said,  "  since  when  am  I  grown  vile  ? 
Since  when  am  I  grown  helpless  of  my  hands  ? 
Or  else  what  folk,  with  words  inwrought  with  guile, 
Thine  ears  have  poisoned ;  that  when  far-off  lands 
My  fame  might  fill,  by  thy  most  strange  commands 
I  needs  must  stay  within  this  slothful  home, 
Whereto  would  God  that  I  had  never  come  ? 

"  What !  wilt  thou  take  mine  honor  quite  away  ? 
Wouldst  thou,  that,  as  with  her  I  just  have  wed 
I  sit  among  thy  folk  at  end  of  day, 
She  should  be  ever  turning  round  her  head 
To  watch  some  man  for  war  apparelled, 
Because  he  wears  a  sword  that  he  may  use, 
Which  grace  to  me  thou  ever  wilt  refuse  ? 

"  Or  dost  thou  think,  when  thou  hast  run  thy  race 
And  thou  art  gone,  and  in  thy  stead  I  reign, 
The  people  will  do  honor  to  my  place, 
Or  that  the  lords  leal  men  will  still  remain, 
If  yet  my  father's  sword  be  sharp  in  vain  ? 
If  on  the  wall  his  armor  still  hang  up, 
While  for  a  spear  I  hold  a  drinking-cup  ?  " 

"  O  Son  ! "  quoth  Crcesus,  "  well  I  know  thee  brave, 
And  worthy  of  high  deeds  of  chivalry  ; 
Therefore  the  more  thy  dear  life  would  I  save, 
Which  now  is  threatened  by  the  gods  on  high  ; 
Three  times  one  night  I  dreamed  I  saw  thee  die, 


346  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Slain  by  some  deadly  iron-pointed  thing, 

While  weeping  lords  stood  round  thee  in  a  ring." 

Then  loud  laughed  Atys,  and  he  said  again, 
"Father,  and  did  this  ugly  dream  tell  thee 
What  day  it  was  on  which  I  should  be  slain  ? 
As  may  the  gods  grant  I  may  one  day  be, 
And  not  from  sickness  die  right  wretchedly, 
Groaning  with  pain,  my  lords  about  my  bed, 
Wishing  to  God  that  I  were  fairly  dead  ; 

"  But  slain  in  battle,  as  the  Lydian  kings 
Have  died  ere  now,  in  some  great  victory, 
While  all  about  the  Lydian  shouting  rings 
Death  to  the  beaten  foemen  as  they  fly. 
What  death  but  this,  O  father  !  should  I  die  ? 
But  if  my  life  by  iron  shall  be  done, 
What  steel  to-day  shall  glitter  in  the  sun  ? 

"  Yea,  father,  if  to  thee  it  seemeth  good 
To  keep  me  from  the  bright  steel-bearing  throng, 
Let  me  be  brave  at  least  within  the  wood  ; 
For  surely,  if  thy  dream  be  true,  no  wrong 
Can  hap  to  me  from  this  beast's  tushes  strong : 
Unless  perchance  the  beast  is  grown  so  wise, 
He  haunts  the  forest  clad  in  Lydian  guise. " 

Then  Croesus  said  :   "  O  Son,  I  love  thee  so, 
That  thou  shalt  do  thy  will  upon  this  tide  : 
But  since  unto  this  hunting  thou  must  go, 
A  trusty  friend  along  with  thee  shall  ride, 
Who  not  for  anything  shall  leave  thy  side. 
I  think,  indeed,  he  loves  thee  well  enow 
To  thrust  his  heart  'twixt  thee  and  any  blow. 

"  Go  then,  O  Son,  and  if  by  some  short  span 
Thy  life  be  measured,  how  shall  it  harm  thee, 
If  while  life  last  thou  art  a  happy  man  ? 
And  thou  art  happy  ;  only  unto  me 
Is  trembling  left,  and  infelicity  : 
The  trembling  of  the  man  who  loves  on  earth, 
But  unto  thee  is  hope  and  present  mirth. 

"  Nay,  be  thou  not  ashamed,  for  on  this  day 
I  fear  not  much  :  thou  read'st  my  dream  aright, 
No  teeth  or  claws  shall  take  thy  life  away. 


THE  SON  OF  CRCESUS.  347 

And  it  may  chance,  ere  thy  last  glorious  fight, 
I  shall  be  blinded  by  the  endless  night  ; 
And  brave  Adrastus  on  this  day  shall  be 
Thy  safeguard,  and  sfiall  give  good  heart  to  me. 

"  Go  then,  and  send  him  hither,  and  depart ; 
And  as  the  heroes  did  may'st  thou  too  do, 
Winning  such  fame  as  well  may  please  thine  heart" 
With  that  word  from  the  King  did  Atys  go, 
Who,  left  behind,  sighed, saying,  "  May  it  be  so, 
Even  as  I  hope  ;  and  yet  I  would  to  God 
These  men  upon  my  threshold  ne'er  had  trod." 

So  when  Adrastus  to  the  King  was  come 
He  said  unto  him,  ' '  O  my  Phrygian  friend, 
We  in  this  land  have  given  you  a  fair  home, 
And  'gainst  all  foes  your  life  will  we  defend  : 
Wherefore  for  us  that  life  thou  shouldest  spend, 
If  any  day  there  should  be  need  therefore  ; 
And  now  a  trusty  friend  I  need  right  sore. 

"  Doubtless  ere  now  thou  hast  heard  many  say 
There  is  a  doom  that  threatens  my  son's  life ; 
Therefore  this  place  is  stript  of  arms  to-day, 
And  therefore  still  bides  Atys  with  his  wife, 
And  tempts  not  any  god  by  raising  strife  ; 
Yet  none  the  less  by  no  desire  of  his, 
To  whom  would  war  be  most  abundant  bliss. 

"  And  since  to-day  some  glory  he  may  gain 
Against  a  monstrous  bestial  enemy, 
And  that  the  meaning  of  my  dream  is  plain, 
That  saith  that  he  by  steel  alone  shall  die, 
His  burning  wish  I  may  not  well  deny  ; 
Therefore  afield  to-morrow  doth  he  wend 
And  herein  may'st  thou  show  thyself  my  friend  — 

' '  For  thou  as  captain  of  his  band  shalt  ride, 
And  keep  a  watchful  eye  of  everything, 
Nor  leave  him  whatsoever  may  betide  : 
Lo,  thou  art  brave,  the  son  of  a  great  king, 
And  with  thy  praises  doth  this  city  ring, 
Why  should  I  tell  thee  what  a  name  those  gain, 
Who,  dying  for  their  friends,  die  not  in  vain." 

Then  said  Adrastus,  "  Now  were  I  grown  base 
Beyond  all  words,  if  I  should  spare  for  aught 


348  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

In  guarding  him,  so  sit  with  smiling  face, 
And  of  this  matter  take  no  further  thought, 
Because  with  my  life  shall  his  life  be  bought, 
If  ill  should  hap  ;  and  no  ill  fate  it  were, 
If  I  should  die  for  what  I  hold  so  dear. " 

Then  went  Adrastus,  and  next  morn  all  things, 
That  'longed  unto  the  hunting,  were  well  dight, 
And  forth  they  went  clad  as  the  sons  of  kings, 
Fair  was  the  morn,  as  through  the  sunshine  bright 
They  rode,  the  prince  half  wild  with  great  delight, 
The  Phrygian  smiling  on  him  soberly, 
And  ever  looking  round  with  watchful  eye. 

So  through  the  city  all  the  rout  rode  fast 
With  many  a  great  black-muzzled  yellow  hound, 
And  then  the  teeming  country-side  they  passed, 
Until  they  came  to  sour  and  rugged  ground, 
And  there  rode  up  a  little  heathy  mound, 
That  overlooked  the  scrubby  woods  and  low, 
That  of  the  beast's  lair  somewhat  they  might  know. 

And  there  a  good  man  of  the  country-side 
Showed  them  the  places  where  he  mostly  lay  ; 
And  they,  descending,  through  the  wood  did  ride, 
And  followed  on  his  tracks  for  half  the  day. 
And  at  the  last  they  brought  him  well  to  bay, 
Within  an  oozy  space  amidst  the  wood, 
About  the  which  a  ring  of  alders  stood. 

So  when  the  hounds'  changed  voices  clear  they  heard, 
With  hearts  aflame  on  towards  him  straight  they  drew  ; 
Atys  the  first  of  all,  of  naught  afeard, 
Except  that  folk  should  say  some  other  slew 
The  beast ;  and  lustily  his  horn  he  blew, 
Going  afoot ;  then,  mighty  spear  in  hand, 
Adrastus  headed  all  the  following  band. 

Now  when  they  came  unto  the  plot  of  ground 
Where  stood  the  boar,  hounds  dead  about  him  lay 
Or  sprawled  about,  bleeding  from  many  a  wound, 
But  still  the  others  held  him  well  at  bay, 
Nor  had  he  been  bestead  thus  ere  that  day. 
But  yet,  seeing  Atys,  straight  he  rushed  at  him, 
Speckled  with  foam,  bleeding  in  flank  and  limb. 


THE  SON  OF  CROESUS.  349 

Then  Atys  stood  and  cast  his  well-steeled  spear 
With  a  great  shout,  and  straight  and  well  it  flew ; 
For  now  the  broad  blade,  cutting  through  the  ear, 
A  stream  of  blood  from  out  the  shoulder  drew. 
And  therewithal  another,  no  less  true, 
Adrastus  cast,  whereby  the  boar  had  died : 
But  Atys  drew  the  bright  sword  from  his  side, 

And  to  the  tottering  beast  he  drew  anigh  : 
But  as  the  sun's  rays  ran  adown  the  blade 
Adrastus  threw  a  javelin  hastily, 
For  of  the  mighty  beast  was  he  afraid, 
Lest  by  his  wounds  he  should  not  yet  be  stayed, 
But  with  a  last  rush  cast  his  life  away, 
And  dying  there,  the  son  of  Croesus  slay. 

But  even  as  the  feathered  dart  he  hurled, 
His  strained,  despairing  eyes  beheld  the  end, 
And  changed  seemed  all  the  fashion  of  the  world, 
And  past  and  future  into  one  did  blend, 
As  he  beheld  the  fixed  eyes  of  his  friend, 
That  no  reproach  had  in  them,  and  no  fear, 
For  Death  had  seized  him  ere  he  thought  him  near. 

Adrastus  shrieked,  and  running  up  he  caught 
The  falling  man,  and  from  his  bleeding  side 
Drew  out  the  dart,  and,  seeing  that  death  had  brought 
Deliverance  to  him,  he  thereby  had  died  ; 
But  ere  his  hand  the  luckless  steel  could  guide,   • 
And  he  the  refuge  of  poor  souls  could  win, 
The  horror-stricken  huntsmen  had  rushed  in. 

And  these,  with  blows  and  cries  he  heeded  naught, 
His  unresisting  hands  made  haste  to  bind ; 
Then  of  the  alder-boughs  a  bier  they  wrought, 
And  laid  the  corpse  thereon,  and  'gan  to  wind 
Homeward  amidst  the  tangled  wood  and  blind, 
And  going  slowly,  at  the  eventide, 
Some  leagues  from  Sardis  did  that  day  abide. 

Onward  next  morn  the  slaughtered  man  they  bore, 
With  him  that  slew  him,  and  at  end  of  day 
They  reached  the  city,  and  with  mourning  sore 
Toward  the  king's  palace  did  they  take  their  way. 
He  in  an  open  western  chamber  lay 


350  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Feasting,  though  inwardly  his  heart  did  burn 
Until  that  Atys  should  to  him  return. 

And  when  those  wails  first  smote  upon  his  ear 
He  set  the  wine-cup  down,  and  to  his  feet 
He  rose,  and  bitter  all-consuming  fear 
Swallowed  his  joy,  and  nigh  he  went  to  meet 
That  which  was  coming  through  the  weeping  street ; 
But  in  the  end  he  thought  it  good  to  wait, 
And  stood  there  doubting  all  the  ills  of  fate. 

But  when  at  last  up  to  that  royal  place 
Folk  brought  the  thing  he  once  had  held  so  dear, 
Still  stood  the  King,  staring  with  ghastly  face 
As  they  brought  forth  Adrastus  and  the  bier, 
But  spoke  at  last  slowly  without  a  tear, 
"  O  Phrygian  man,  that  I  did  purify, 
Is  it  through  thee  that  Atys  came  to  die  ?  " 

"  O  King,"  Adrastus  said,  "  take  now  my  life, 
With  whatso  torment  seemeth  good  to  thee, 
As  my  word  went,  for  I  would  end  this  strife, 
And  underneath  the  earth  lie  quietly  ; 
Nor  is  it  my  will  here  alive  to  be  : 
For  as  my  brother,  so  Prince  Atys  died, 
And  this  unlucky  hand  some  god  did  guide." 

Then  as  a  man  constrained,  the  tale  he  told 
From  end  to  end,  nor  spared  himself  one  whit : 
And  as  hfe  spoke,  the  wood  did  still  behold, 
The  trodden  grass,  and  Atys  dead  on  it ; 
And  many  a  change  o'er  the  King's  face  did  flit 
Of  kingly  rage  and  hatred  and  despair, 
As  on  the  slayer's  face  he  still  did  stare. 

At  last  he  said,  "  Thy  death  avails  me  naught, 
The  gods  themselves  have  done  this  bitter  deed, 
That  I  was  all  too  happy  was  their  thought, 
Therefore  thy  heart  is  dead  and  mine  doth  bleed, 
And  I  am  helpless  as  a  trodden  weed  : 
Thou  art  but  as  the  handle  of  the  spear, 
The  caster  sits  far  off  from  any  fear. 

"  Yet,  if  thy  hurt  they  meant,  I  can  do  this,  — 
—  Loose  him  and  let  him  go  in  peace  from  me  — 
I  will  not  slay  the  slayer  of  all  my  bliss  ; 


THE  SON  OF  CRCESUS.  351 

Yet  go,  poor  man,  for  when  thy  face  I  see 
I  curse  the  gods  for  their  felicity. 
Surely  some  other  slayer  they  would  have  found, 
If  thou  hadst  long  ago  been  under  ground. 

"Alas,  Adrastus  !  in  my  inmost  heart 
I  knew  the  gods  would  one  day  do  this  thing, 
But  deemed  indeed  that  it  would  be  thy  part 
To  comfort  me  amidst  my  sorrowing  ; 
Make  haste  to  go,  for  I  am  still  a  King ! 
Madness  may  take  me,  I  have  many  hands 
Who  will  not  spare  to  do  my  worst  commands." 

With  that  Adrastus'  bonds  were  done  away, 
And  forthwith  to  the  city  gates  he  ran, 
And  on  the  road  where  they  had  been  that  day 
Rushed  through  the  gathering  night ;  and  some  lone  man 
Beheld  next  day  hie  visage  wild  and  wan, 
Peering  from  out  a  thicket  of  the  wood 
Where  he  had  spilt  that  well-beloved  blood. 

And  now  the  day  of  burial  pomp  must  be, 
And  to  those  rites  all  lords  of  Lydia  came 
About  the  King,  and  that  day  they  and  he 
Cast  royal  gifts  of  rich  things  on  the  flame  ; 
But  while  they  stood  and  wept,  and  called  by  name 
Upon  the  dead,  amidst  them  came  a  man 
With  raiment  rent,  and  haggard  face  and  wan  : 

Who,  when  the  marshals  would  have  thrust  him  out 
And  men  looked  strange  on  him,  began  to  say, 
"  Surely  the  world  is  changed  since  ye  have  doubt 
Of  who  I  am  ;  nay,  turn  me  not  away, 
For  ye  have  called  me  princely  ere  to-day  — 
Adrastus,  son  of  Gordius,  a  great  King, 
Where  unto  Pallas  Phrygian  maidens  sing. 

"  O  Lydians,  many  a  rich  thing  have  ye  cast 
Into  this  flame,  but  I  myself  will  give 
A  greater  gift,  since  now  I  see  at  last 
The  gods  are  wearied  for  that  still  I  live, 
And  with  their  will  why  should  I  longer  strive  ? 
Atys,  O  Atys,  thus  I  give  to  thee 
A  life  that  lived  for  thy  felicity." 

And  therewith  from  his  side  a  knife  he  drew, 
And,  crying  out,  upon  the  pile  he  leapt, 


352  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And  with  one  mighty  stroke  himself  he  slew. 
So  there  these  princes  both  together  slept, 
And  their  light  ashes,  gathered  up,  were  kept 
Within  a  golden  vessel  wrought  all  o'er 
With  histories  of  this  hunting  of  the  boar. 


A  GENTLE  wind  had  risen  midst  his  tale, 
.That  bore  the  sweet  scents  of  the  fertile  vale 
In  at  the  open  windows  ;  and  these  men 
The  burden  of  their  years  scarce  noted  then, 
Soothed  by  the  sweet  luxurious  summer  time, 
And  by  the  cadence  of  that  ancient  rhyme, 
Spite  of  its  saddening  import ;  nay,  indeed, 
Of  some  such  thoughts  the  Wanderers  had  need 
As  that  tale  gave  them  —  Yea,  a  man  shall  be 
A  wonder  for  his  glorious  chivalry, 
First  in  all  wisdom,  of  a  prudent  mind, 
Yet  none  the  less  him  too  his  fate  shall  find 
Unfenced  by  these,  a  man  'mongst  other  men. 
Yea,  and  will  Fortune  pick  out,  now  and  then, 
The  noblest  for  the  anvil  of  her  blows  ; 
Great  names  are  few,  and  yet,  indeed,  who  knows 
What  greater  souls  have  fallen  'neath  the  stroke 
Of  careless  fate  ?     Purblind  are  most  of  folk, 
The  happy  are  the  masters  of  the  earth 
Which  ever  give  small  heed  to  hapless  worth  ; 
So  goes  the  world,  and  this  we  needs  must  bear 
Like  eld  and  death  :  yet  there  wece  some  men  there 
Who  drank  in  silence  to  the  memory 
Of  those  who  failed  on  earth  great  men  to  be, 
Though  better  than  the  men  who  won  the  crown. 

But  when  the  sun  was  fairly  going  down 
They  left  the  house,  and,  following  up  the  stream, 
In  the  low  sun  saw  the  kingfisher  gleam 
'Twixt  bank  and  alder,  and  the  grebe  steal  out 
From  the  high  sedge,  and,  in  his  restless  doubt, 
Dive  down,  and  rise  to  see  what  men  were  there  ; 
They  saw  the  swallow  chase  high  up  in  air 
The  circling  gnats  ;  the  shaded  dusky  pool 
Broke  by  the  splashing  chub  ;  the  ripple  cool, 
Rising  and  falling,  of  some  distant  weir 
They  heard,  till  it  oppressed  the  listening  ear, 
As  twilight  grew  :  so  back  they  turned  again 
Glad  of  their  rest,  and  pleasure  after  pain. 


JULY.  353 


WITHIN  the  gardens  once  again  they  met, 
That  now  the  roses  did  wellnigh  forget, 
For  hot  July  was  drawing  to  an  end, 
And  August  came  the  fainting  year  to  mend 
With  fruit  and  grain  ;  so,  'neath  the  trellises, 
Nigh  blossomless,  did  they  lie  well  at  ease, 
And  watched  the  poppies  burn  across  the  grass, 
And  o'er  the  bindweed's  bells  the  brown  bee  pass 
Still  murmuring  of  his  gains  :  windless  and  bright 
The  morn  had  been,  to  help  their  dear  delight ; 
But  heavy  clouds  ere  noon  grew  round  the  sun, 
And,  halfway  to  the  zenith,  wild  and  dun 
The  sky  grew,  and  the  thunder  growled  afar  ; 
But,  ere  the  steely  clouds  began  their  war, 
A  change  there  came,  and,  as  by  some  great  hand, 
The  clouds  that  hung  in  threatening  o'er  the  land 
Were  drawn  away  ;  then  a  light  wind  arose 
That  shook  the  light  stems  of  that  flowery  close, 
And  made  men  sigh  for  pleasure  ;  therewithal 
Did  mirth  upon  the  feasting  elders  fall, 
And  they  no  longer  \vatched  the  lowering  sky, 
But  called  aloud  for  some  new  history. 

Then  spoke  the  Suabian,  "  Sirs,  this  tale  is  told 
Among  our  searchers  for  fine  stones  and  gold, 
And  though  I  tell  it  wrong  be  good  to  me  ; 
For  I  the  written  book  did  never  see, 
Made  by  some  Fleming,  as  I  think,  wherein 
Is  told  this  tale  of  wilfulness  and  sin." 


THE  WATCHING  OF  THE  FALCON. 


,  ARGUMENT. 

THE  case  of  this  Falcon  was  such,  that  whoso  watched  it  without  sleeping 
for  seven  days  and  seven  nights,  had  his  first  wish  granted  him  by  a 
fay  lady,  that  appeared  to  him  thereon  ;  and  some  wished  one  thing, 
and  some  another.  But  a  certain  King,  who  watched  the  Falcon  daily, 
would  wish  for  naught  but  the  love  of  that  fay;  which  wish,  being 
accomplished,  was  afterwards  his  ruin. 

ACROSS  the  sea  a  land  there  is, 
Where,  if  fate  will,  may  men  have  bliss, 
For  it  is  fair  as  any  land : 
There  hath  the  reaper  a  full  hand, 
While  in  the  orchard  hangs  aloft 
The  purple  fig  a-growing  soft ; 
And  fair  the  trellised  vine-bunches 
Are  swung  across  the  high  elm-trees ; 
And  in  the  rivers  great  fish  play, 
While  over  them  pass  day  by  day 
The  laden  barges  to  their  place. 
There  maids  are  straight,  and  fair  of  face, 
And  men  are  stout  for  husbandry, 
And  all  is  well  as  it  can  be 
Upon  this  earth  where  all  has  end. 

For  on  them  God  is  pleased  to  send 
The  gift  of  Death  down  from  above, 
That  envy,  hatred,  and  hot  love, 
Knowledge  with  hunger  by  his  side, 
And  avarice  and  deadly  pride, 
There  may  have  end  like  everything 
Both  to  the  shepherd  and  the  king  : 
Lest  this  green  earth  become  but  hell 
If  folk  thereon  should  ever  dwell. 

Full  little  most  men  think  of  this, 
But  half  in  woe  and  half  in  bliss 
They  pass  their  lives,  and  die  at  last 
Unwilling,  though  their  lot  be  cast 
In  wretched  places  of  the  earth, 


WATCHING   OF  THE  FALCON.  355 

Where  men  have  little  joy  from  birth 

Until  they  die  ;  in  no  such  case 

Were  those  who  tilled  this  pleasant  place. 

There  soothly  men  were  loath  to  die, 
Though  sometimes  in  his  misery 
A  man  would  say,  "  Would  I  were  dead !  " 
Alas  !  full  little  likelihead 
That  he  should  live  forever  there. 

So  folk  within  that  country  fair 
Lived  on,  nor  from  their  memories  drave 
The  thought  of  what  they  could  not  have, 
And  without  need  tormented  still 
Each  other  with  some  bitter  ill ; 
Yea,  and  themselves  too,  growing  gray 
With  dread  of  some  long-lingering  day, 
That  never  came  ere  they  were  dead 
With  green  sods  growing  on  the  head  ; 
Nowise  content  with  what  they  had, 
But  falling  still  from  good  to  bad 
While  hard  they  sought  the  hopeless  best ; 
And  seldom  happy  or  at  rest 
Until  at  last  with  lessening  blood 
One  foot  within  the  grave  they  stood. 

Now  so  it  chanced  that  in  this  land 
There  did  a  certain  castle  stand, 
Set  all  alone  deep  in  the  hills, 
Amid  the  sound  of  falling  rills 
Within  a  valley  of  sweet  grass, 
To  which  there  went  one  narrow  pass 
Through  the  dark  hills,  but  seldom  trod. 
Rarely  did  horse-hoof  press  the  sod 
About  the  quiet  weedy  moat, 
Where  unscared  did  the  great  fish  float ; 
Because  men  dreaded  there  to  see 
The  uncouth  things  of  faerie  ; 
Nathless  by  some  few  fathers  old 
These  tales  about  the  place  were  told  — 

That  neither  squire  nor  seneschal 
Or  varlet  came  in  bower  or  hall, 
Yet  all  things  were  in  order  due, 
Hangings  of  gold  and  red  and  blue, 
And  tables  with  fair  service  set ; 
Cups  that  had  paid  the  Csesar's  debt 
Could  he  have  laid  his  hands  on  them ; 
Dorsars,  with  pearls  in  every  hem, 


356  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And  fair  embroidered  gold-wrought  things, 
Fit  for  a  company  of  kings  ; 
And  in  the  chambers  dainty  beds, 
With  pillows  dight  for  fair  young  heads  ; 
And  horses  in  the  stables  were, 
And  in  the  cellars  wine  full  clear 
And  strong,  and  casks  of  ale  and  mead ; 
Yea,  all  things  a  great  lord  could  need. 

For  whom  these  things  were  ready  there 
None  knew ;  but  if  one  chanced  to  fare 
Into  that  place  at  Easter-tide, 
There  would  he  find  a  falcon  tied 
Unto  a  pillar  of  the  Hall ; 
And  such  a  fate  to  him  would  fall, 
That  if  unto  the  seventh  night 
He  watched  the  bird  from  dark  to  light 
And  light  to  dark  unceasingly, 
On  the  last  evening  he  should  see 
A  lady  beautiful  past  words  ; 
Then,  were  he  come  of  clowns  or  lords, 
Son  of  a  swineherd  or  a  king, 
There  must  she  grant  him  anything 
Perforce,  that  he  might  dare  to  ask, 
And  do  his  very  hardest  task. 

But  if  he  slumbered,  ne'er  again 
The  wretch  would  wake,  for  he  was  slain 
Helpless  by  hands  he  could  not  see, 
And  his  corpse  mangled  wretchedly. 

Now  said  these  elders  —  Ere  this  tide 
Full  many  folk  this  thing  have  tried, 
But  few  have  got  much  good  thereby  ; 
For  first,  a  many  came  to  die 
By  slumbering  ere  their  watch  was  done ; 
Or  else  they  saw  that  lovely  one, 
And,  mazed,  they  knew  not  what  to  say ; 
Or  asked  for  some  small  thing  that  day 
That  easily  they  might  have  won, 
Nor  staked  their  lives  and  souls  thereon  ; 
Or,  asking,  asked  for  some  great  thing 
That  was  their  bane  ;  as  to  be  king 
One  asked,  and  died  the  morrow  mom 
That  he  was  crowned,  of  all  forlorn. 

Yet  thither  came  a  certain  man, 
Who  from  being  poor  great  riches  wan 
Past  telling,  whose  grandsons  now  are 


WATCHING  OF  THE  FALCON.  357 

Great  lords  thereby  in  peace  and  war. 
And  in  their  coat-of-arms  they  bear, 
Upon  a  field  of  azure  fair, 
A  castle  and  a  falcon,  set 
Below  a  chief  of  golden  fret. 

And  in  our  day  a  certain  knight 
Prayed  to  be  worsted  in  no  fight, 
And  so  it  happed  to  him  :  yet  he 
Died  none  the  less  most  wretchedly, 
And  all  his  prowess  was  in  vain, 
For  by  a  losel  was  he  slain, 
As  on  the  highway  side  he  slept 
One  summer  night,  of  no  man  kept 

Such  tales  as  these  the  fathers  old 
About  that  lonely  castle  told  ; 
And  in  their  day  the  King  must  try 
Himself  to  prove  that  mystery, 
Although,  unless  the  fay  could  give 
Forever  on  the  earth  to  live, 
Naught  could  he  ask  that  he  had  not : 
For  boundless  riches  had  he  got, 
Fair  children,  and  a  faithful  wife  ; 
And  happily  had  passed  his  life, 
And  all  fulfilled  of  victory, 
Yet  was  he  fain  this  thing  to  see. 

So  towards  the  mountains  he  set  out 
One  noontide,  with  a  gallant  rout 
Of  knights  and  lords,  and  as  the  day 
Began  to  fail  came  to  the  way 
Where  he  must  enter  all  alone, 
Between  the  dreary  walls  of  stone. 
Thereon  to  that  fair  company 
He  bade  farewell,  who  wistfully 
Looked  backward  oft  as  home  they  rode. 
But  in  the  entry  he  abode 
Of  that  rough  unknown  narrowing  pass, 
Where  twilight  at  the  high  noon  was. 

Then  onward  he  began  to  ride  : 
Smooth  rose  the  rocks  on  every  side, 
And  seemed  as  they  were  cut  by  man  ; 
Adown  them  ever  water  ran, 
But  they  of  living  things  were  bare, 
Yea,  not  a  blade  of  grass  grew  there  ; 
And  underfoot  rough  was  the  way, 
For  scattered  all  about  there  lay 


358  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Great  jagged  pieces  of  black  stone. 
Throughout  the  pass  the  wind  did  moan 
With  such  wild  noises,  that  the  King 
Could  almost  think  he  heard  something 
Spoken  of  men  ;  as  one  might  hear 
The  voices  of  folk  standing  near 
One's  chamber  wall  :  yet  saw  he  naught 
Except  those  high  walls  strangely  wrought, 
And  overhead  the  strip  of  sky. 

So,  going  onward  painfully, 
He  met  therein  no  evil  thing, 
But  came  about  the  sunsetting 
Unto  the  opening  of  the  pass, 
And  thence  beheld  a  vale  of  grass 
Bright  with  the  yellow  daffodil  ; 
And  all  the  vale  the  sun  did  fill 
With  his  last  glory.     Midmost  there 
Rose  up  a  stronghold,  built  foursquare, 
Upon  a  flowery  grassy  mound, 
That  moat  and  high  wall  ran  around. 

Thereby  he  saw  a  walled  pleasance, 
With  walks  and  sward  fit  for  the  dance 
Of  Arthur's  court  in  its  best  time, 
That  seemed  to  feel  some  magic  clime  ; 
For  though  through  all  the  vale  outside 
Things  were  as  in  the  April-tide, 
And  daffodils  and  cowslips  grew, 
And  hidden  the  March  violets  blew ; 
Within  the  bounds  of  that  sweet  close 
Was  trellised  the  bewildering  rose  ; 
There  was  the  lily  over-sweet, 
And  starry  pinks  for  garlands  meet ; 
And  apricots  hung  on  the  wall 
And  midst  the  flowers  did  peaches  fall, 
And  naught  had  blemish  there  or  spot, 
For  in  that  place  decay  was  not 

Silent  awhile  the  King  abode 
Beholding  all,  then  on  he  rode 
And  to  the  castle-gate  drew  nigh, 
Till  fell  the  drawbridge  silently, 
And  when  across  it  he  did  ride 
He  found  the  great  gates  open  wide, 
And  entered  there,  but  as  he  passed 
The  gates  were  shut  behind  him  fast, 
But  not  before  that  he  could  see 
The  drawbridge  rise  up  silently. 


WATCHING  OF  THE  FALCON.  359 

Then  round  he  gazed  oppressed  with  awe, 
And  there  no  living  thing  he  saw 
Except  the  sparrows  in  the  eaves, 
As  restless  as  light  autumn  leaves 
Blown  by  the  fitful  rainy  wind. 
Thereon  his  final  goal  to  find, 
He  lighted  off  his  war-horse  good 
And  let  him  wander  as  he  would, 
When  he  had  eased  him  of  his  gear ; 
Then  gathering  heart  against  his  fear, 
Just  at  the  silent  end  of  day 
Through  the  fair  porch  he  took  his  way, 
And  found  at  last  a  goodly  hall 
With  glorious  hangings  on  the  wall, 
Inwrought  with  trees  of  every  clime, 
And  stories  of  the  ancient  time, 
But  all  of  sorcery  they  were. 
For  o'er  the  dais  Venus  fair, 
Fluttered  about  by  many  a  dove, 
Made  hopeless  men  for  hopeless  love, 
Both  sick  and  sorry  ;  there  they  stood 
Wrought  wonderfully  in  various  mood, 
But  wasted  all  by  that  hid  fire 
Of  measureless  o'er-sweet  desire, 
And  let  the  hurrying  world  go  by 
Forgetting  all  felicity. 
But  down  the  hall  the  tale  was  wrought 
How  Argo  in  old  time  was  brought 
To  Colchis  for  the  fleece  of  gold. 
And  on  the  other  side  was  told 
How  mariners  for  long  years  came 
To  Circe,  winning  grief  and  shame, 
Until  at  last  by  hardihead 
And  craft,  Ulysses  won  her  bed. 

Long  upon  these  the  King  did  look 
And  of  them  all  good  heed  he  took  ; 
To  see  if  they  would  tell  him  aught 
About  the  matter  that  he  sought, 
But  all  were  of  the  times  long  past ; 
So  going  all  about,  at  last, 
When  grown  nigh  weary  of  his  search, 
A  falcon  on  a  silver  perch 
Anigh  the  dais  did  he  see, 
And  wondered,  because  certainly 
At  his  first  coming 't  was  not  there  ; 
But  'neath  the  bird  a  scroll  most  fair, 


36o  1WE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

With  golden  letters  on  the  white, 
He  saw,  and  in  the  dim  twilight 
By  diligence  could  he  read  this  :  — 

"  Ye  -who  have  not  enow  of  bliss, 
And  in  this  hard  -world  labor  sore, 
By  manhood  here  may  get  you  more, 
And  be  fulfilled  of  every  thing, 
Till  ye  be  masters  of  the  King. 

And  yet,  since  I  -who  promise  this 
Am  nowise  God  to  give  man  bliss 
Past  ending,  now  in  time  beware, 
And  if  you  live  in  little  care 
At  this  time  get  you  back  again, 
Lest  imknown  woe  you  chance  to  gain 
In  wishing  for  a  thing  untried." 

A  little  while  did  he  abide, 
When  he  had  read  this,  deep  in  thought, 
Wondering  indeed  if  there  were  aught 
He  had  not  got  that  a  wise  man 
Would  wish  ;  yet  in  his  mind  it  ran 
That  he  might  win  a  boundless  realm, 
Yea,  come  to  wear  upon  his  helm 
The  crown  of  the  whole  conquered  earth  ; 
That  all  who  lived  thereon,  from  birth 
To  death,  should  call  him  King  and  Lord, 
And  great  kings  tremble  at  his  word, 
Until  in  turn  he  came  to  die. 
Therewith  a  little  did  he  sigh, 
But  thought,  "  Of  Alexander  yet 
Men  talk,  nor  would  they  e'er  forget 
My  name,  if  this  should  come  to  be, 
Whoever  should  come  after  me  : 
But  while  I  lay  wrapped  round  with  gold 
Should  tales  and  histories  manifold 
Be  written  of  me,  false  and  true  ; 
And  as  the  time  still  onward  drew 
Almost  a  god  would  folk  count  me, 
Saying,  '  In  our  time  none  such  be. ' " 
But  therewith  did  he  sigh  again, 
And  said,  "  Ah,  vain,  and  worse  than  vain  ! 
For  though  the  world  forget  me  naught, 
Yet  by  that  time  should  I  be  brought 
Where  all  the  world  I  should  forget, 
And  bitterly  should  I  regret 


WATCHING  OF  THE  FALCON.  361 

That  I,  from  godlike  great  renown, 
To  helpless  death  must  fall  adown  : 
How  could  I  bear  to  leave  it  all  ?  " 

Then  straight  upon  his  mind  did  fall 
Thoughts  of  old  longings  half  forgot, 
Matters  for  which  his  heart  was  hot 
A  while  ago  :  whereof  no  more 
He  cared  for  some,  and  some  right  sore 
Had  vexed  him,  being  fulfilled  at  last. 
And  when  the  thought  of  these  had  passed, 
Still  something  was  there  left  behind, 
That  by  no  torturing  of  his  mind 
Could  he  in  any  language  name, 
Or  into  form  of  wishing  frame. 

At  last  he  thought,  "  What  matters  it  ? 
Before  these  seven  days  shall  flit 
Some  great  thing  surely  shall  I  find, 
That  gained  will  not  leave  grief  behind, 
Nor  turn  to  deadly  injury. 
So  now  will  I  let  these  things  be 
And  think  of  some  unknown  delight. " 

Now,  therewithal,  was  come  the  night, 
And  thus  his  watch  was  well  begun  ; 
And  till  the  rising  of  the  sun, 
Waking,  he  paced  about  the  hall, 
And  saw  the  hangings  on  the  wall 
Fade  into  naught,  and  then  grow  white 
In  patches  by  the  pale  moonlight, 
And  then  again  fade  utterly 
As  still  the  moonbeams  passed  them  by ; 
Then  in  a  while,  with  hope  of  day, 
Begin  a  little  to  grow  gray, 
Until  familiar  things  they  grew, 
As  up  at  last  the  great  sun  drew, 
And  lit  them  with  his  yellow  light 
At  ending  of  another  night. 

Then  right  glad  was  he  of  the  day, 
That  passed  with  him  in  such  like  way  ; 
For  neither  man  nor  beast  came  near, 
Nor  any  voices  did  he  hear. 
And  when  again  it  drew  to  night 
Silent  it  passed,  till  first  twilight 
Of  morning  came,  and  then  he  heard 
The  feeble  twittering  of  some  bird, 


362  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

That,  in  that  utter  silence  drear, 
Smote  harsh  and  startling  on  his  ear. 

Therewith  came  on  that  lonely  day 
That  passed  him  in  no  other  way ; 
And  thus  six  days  and  nights  went  by 
And  nothing  strange  had  come  anigh. 

And  on  that  day  he  wellnigh  deemed 
That  all  that  story  had  been  dreamed. 
Daylight  and  dark,  and  night  and  day, 
Passed  ever  in  their  wonted  way  ; 
The  wind  played  in  the  trees  outside, 
The  rooks  from  out  the  high  trees  cried ; 
And  all  seemed  natural  and  fair, 
With  little  signs  of  magic  there. 
Yet  neither  could  he  quite  forget 
That  close  with  summer  blossoms  set, 
And  fruit  hung  on  trees  blossoming, 
When  all  about  was  early  spring. 
Yea,  if  all  this  by  man  were  made, 
Strange  was  it  that  still  undecayed 
The  food  lay  on  the  tables  still, 
Unchanged  by  man,  that  wine  did  fill 
The  golden  cups,  still  bright  and  red. 
And  all  was  so  apparelled 
For  guests  that  came  not,  yet  was  all 
As  though  that  servants  filled  the  hall. 

So  waxed  and  waned  his  hopes,  and  still 
He  formed  no  wish  for  good  or  ill. 

And  while  he  thought  of  this  and  that 
Upon  his  perch  the  falcon  sat 
Unfed,  unhooded,  his  bright  eyes 
Beholders  of  the  hard-earned  prize, 
Glancing  around  him  restlessly, 
As  though  he  knew  the  time  drew  nigh 
When  this  long  watching  should  be  done. 

So  little  by  little  fell  the  sun, 
From  high  noon  unto  sunsetting ; 
And  in  that  lapse  of  time  the  King, 
Though  still  he  woke,  yet  none  the  less 
Was  dreaming  in  his  sleeplessness 
Of  this  and  that  which  he  had  done 
Before  this  watch  he  had  begun  ; 
Till  with  a  start  he  looked  at  last 
About  him,  and  all  dreams  were  past ; 
For  now,  though  it  was  past  twilight 


WATCHING  OF  THE  FALCON.  363 

Without,  within  all  grew  as  bright 
As  when  the  noon-sun  smote  the  wall, 
Though  no  lamp  shone  within  the  hall 

Then  rose  the  King  upon  his  feet, 
And  wellnigh  heard  his  own  heart  beat, 
And  grew  all  pale  for  hope  and  fear, 
As  sound  of  footsteps  caught  his  ear 
But  soft,  and  as  some  fair  lady, 
Going  as  gently  as  might  be, 
Stopped  now  and  then  awhile,  distraught 
By  pleasant  wanderings  of  sweet  thought. 

Nigher  the  sound  came,  and  more  nigh, 
Until  the  King  unwittingly 
Trembled,  and  felt  his  hair  arise, 
But  on  the  door  still  kept  his  eyes, 
That  opened  soon,  and  in  the  light 
There  stepped  alone  a  lady  bright, 
And  made  straight  toward  him  up  the  halL 

In  golden  garments  was  she  clad 
And  round  her  waist  a  belt  she  had 
Of  emeralds  fair,  and  from  her  feet, 
That  shod  with  gold  the  floor  did  meet, 
She  held  the  raiment  daintily, 
And  on  her  golden  head  had  she 
A  rose-wreath  round  a  pearl-wrought  crown. 
Softly  she  walked  with  eyes  cast  down, 
Nor  looked  she  any  other  than 
An  earthly  lady,  though  no  man 
Has  seen  so  fair  a  thing  as  she. 

So,  when  her  face  the  King  could  see, 
Still  more  he  trembled,  and  he  thought 
"  Surely  my  wish  is  hither  brought, 
And  this  will  be  a  goodly  day 
If  for  mine  own  I  win  this  may." 
And  therewithal  she  drew  anear 
Until  the  trembling  King  could  hear 
Her  very  breathing,  and  she  raised 
Her  head,  and  on  the  King's  face  gazed 
With  serious  eyes,  and,  stopping  there, 
Swept  from  her  shoulders  her  long  hair, 
And  let  her  gown  fall  on  her  feet, 
Then  spoke  in  a  clear  voice  and  sweet : 

"  Well  hast  thou  watched,  so  now,O  King, 
Be  bold,  and  wish  for  some  good  thing  ; 
And  yet,  I  counsel  thee,  be  wise. 


364  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Behold,  spite  of  these  lips  and  eyes, 

Hundreds  of  years  old  now  am  I 

And  have  seen  joy  and. misery. 

And  thou,  who  yet  hast  lived  in  bliss, 

I  bid  thee  well  consider  this  ; 

Better  it  were  that  men  shoulfl  live 

As  beasts,  and  take  what  earth  can  give, 

The  air,  the  warm  sun,  and  the  grass, 

Until  unto  the  earth  they  pass, 

And  gain  perchance  naught  worse  than  rest, 

Than  that,  not  knowing  what  is  best 

For  sons  of  men,  they  needs  must  thirst 

For  what  shall  make  their  lives  accurst. 

"  Therefore  I  bid  thee  now  beware, 
Lest,  getting  something  seeming  fair, 
Thou  com'st  in  vain  to  long  for  more  ; 
Or  lest  the  thing  thou  wishest  for 
Make  thee  unhappy  till  thou  diest, 
Or  lest  with  speedy  death  thou  buyest 
A  little  hour  of  happiness 
Or  lazy  joy  with  sharp  distress. 

"  Alas,  why  say  I  this  to  thee, 
For  now  I  see  full  certainly, 
That  thou  wilt  ask  for  such  a  thing, 
It  had  been  best  for  thee  to  fling 
Thy  body  from  a  mountain-top, 
Or  in  a  white-hot  fire  to  drop, 
Or  ever  thou  hadst  seen  me  here, 
Nay  then  be  speedy  and  speak  clear." 

Then  the  King  cried  out  eagerly, 
Grown  fearless,  "Ah,  be  kind  to  me  ! 
Thou  knowest  what  I  long  for  then  ! 
Thou  know'st  that  I,  a  king  of  men, 
Will  ask  for  nothing  else  than  thee  ! 
Thou  didst  not  say  this  could  not  be, 
And  I  have  had  enow  of  bliss, 
If  I  may  end  my  life  with  this. " 

"  Hearken,"  she  said,  "  what  men  will  say 
When  they  are  mad  ;  before  to-day 
I  knew  that  words  such  things  could  mean, 
And  wondered  that  it  could  have  been. 

"  Think  well,  because  this  wished-for  joy, 
That  surely  will  thy  bliss  destroy, 
Will  let  thee  live,  until  thy  life 
Is  wrapped  in  such  bewildering  strife 
That  all  thy  days  will  seem  but  ill  — 


WATCHING   OF  THE  FALCON.  365 

Now  wilt  thou  wish  for  this  thing  still  ?  " 

"  Wilt  thou  then  grant  it  ?  "  cried  the  King ; 
"  Surely  thou  art  an  earthly  thing, 
And  all  this  is  but  mockery, 
And  thou  canst  tell  no  more  than  I 
What  ending  to  my  life  shall  be." 

"  Nay  then,"  she  said,  "  I  grant  it  tliee 
Perforce ;  come  nigh,  for  I  am  thine 
Until  the  morning  sun  doth  shine, 
And  only  coming  time  can  prove 
.  What  thing  I  am." 

Dizzy  with  love, 

And  with  surprise  struck  motionless 
That  this  divine  thing,  with  far  less 
Of  striving  than  a  village  maid, 
Had  yielded,  there  he  stood  afraid, 
Spite  of  hot  words  and  passionate, 
And  strove  to  think  upon  his  fate. 

But  as  he  stood  there,  presently 
With  smiling  face  she  drew  anigh, 
And  on  his  face  he  felt  her  breath. 
"  O  love,"  she  said,  "  dost  thou  fear  death? 
Not  till  next  morning  shalt  thou  die, 
Or  fall  into  thy  misery." 
Then  on  his  hand  her  hand  did  fall, 
And  forth  she  led  him  down  the  hall, 
Going  full  softly  by  his  side. 

•  "  O  love,"  she  said,  "  now  well  betide 
The  day  whereon  thou  cam'st  to  me. 
I  would  this  night  a  year  might  be, 
Yea,  life-long ;  such  life  as  we  have, 
A  thousand  years  from  womb  to  grave." 

And  then  that  clinging  hand  seemed  worth 
Whatever  joy  was  left  on  earth, 
And  every  trouble  he  forgot, 
And  time  and  death  remembered  not : 
Kinder  she  grew,  she  clung  to  him 
With  loving  arms,  her  eyes  did  swim 
With  love  and  pity,  as  he  strove 
To  show  the  wisdom  of  his  love  ; 
With  trembling  lips  she  praised  his  choice, 
And  said,  "  Ah,  well  may'st  thou  rejoice, 
Well  may'st  thou  think  this  one  short  night 
Worth  years  of  other  men's  delight, 


366  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

If  thy  own  heart  as  my  heart  is, 
Sunk  in  a  boundless  sea  of  bliss  ; 
O  love,  rejoice  with  me  !  rejoice  !  " 

But  as  she  spoke,  her  honeyed  voice 
Trembled,  and  midst  of  sobs  she  said, 
"  O  love,  and  art  thou  still  afraid  ? 
Return,  then,  to  thine  happiness, 
Nor  will  I  love  thee  any  less  ; 
But  watch  thee  as  a  mother  might 
Her  child  at  play. " 

With  strange  delight 

He  stammered  out,  "  Nay,  keep  thy  tears 
For  me,  and  for  my  ruined  years 
Weep  love,  that  I  may  love  thee  more, 
My  little  hour  will  soon  be  o'er. " 

"  Ah,  love,"  she  said,  "and  thou  art  wise 
As  men  are,  with  long  miseries 
Buying  these  idle  words  and  vain, 
My  foolish  love,  with  lasting  pain ; 
And  yet,  thou  wouldst  have  died  at  last 
If  in  all  wisdom  thou  hadst  passed 
Thy  weary  life  :  forgive  me  then, 
In  pitying  the  sad  life  of  men." 

Then  in  such  bliss  his  soul  did  swim, 
But  tender  music  unto  him 
Her  words  were  ;  death  and  misery 
But  empty  names  were  grown  to  be, 
As  from  that  place  his  steps  she  drew, 
And  dark  the  hall  behind  them  grew. 


BUT  end  comes  to  all  earthly  bliss, 
And  by  his  choice  full  short  was  his ; 
And  in  the  morning,  gray  and  cold, 
Beside  the  dais  did  she  hold 
His  trembling  hand,  and  wistfully 
He,  doubting  what  his  fate  should  be, 
Gazed  at  her  solemn  eyes,  that  now, 
Beneath  her  calm  untroubled  brow, 
Were  fixed  on  his  wild  face  and  wan  ; 
At  last  she  said,  "Oh,  hapless  man, 
Depart !  your  full  wish  you  have  had ; 
A  little  time  you  have  been  glad, 
You  shall  be  sorry  till  you  die. 

"And  though,  indeed,  full  fain  am  I 


WATCHING   OF  THE  FALCON.  367 

This  might  not  be  ;  nathless,  as  day 
Night  follows,  colorless  and  gray, 
So  this  shall  follow  your  delight, 
Your  joy  hath  ending  with  last  night  — 
Nay,  peace,  and  hearken  to  your  fate. 

"  Strife  without  peace,  early  and  late, 
Lasting  long  after  you  are  dead, 
And  laid  with  earth  upon  your  head  ; 
War  without  victory  shall  you  have 
Defeat,  nor  honor  shall  you  save  ; 
Your  fair  land  shall  be  rent  and  torn, 
Your  people  be  of  all  forlorn, 
And  all  men  curse  you  for  this  thing." 

She  loosed  his  hand,  but  yet  the  King 
Said,  "  Yea,  and  I  may  go  with  thee? 
Why  should  we  part  ?  then  let  things  be 
E'en  as  they  will !  "     "  Poor  man,"  she  said, 
"  Thou  ravest ;  our  hot  love  is  dead, 
If  ever  it  had  any  life  : 
Go,  make  thee  ready  for  the  strife 
Wherein  thy  life  shall  soon  be  wrapped  ; 
And  of  the  things  that  here  have  happed 
Make  thou  such  joy  as  thou  may'st  do  ; 
But  I  from  this  place  needs  must  go, 
Nor  shalt  thou  ever  see  me  more 
Until  thy  troubled  life  is  o'er  : 
Alas  !  to  say  '  farewell '  to  thee 
Were  naught  but  bitter  mockery. 
Fare  as  thou  may'st,  and  with  good  heart 
Play  to  the  end  thy  wretched  part " 

Therewith  she  turned  and  went  from  him, 
And  with  such  pain  his  eyes  did  swim 
He  scarce  could  see  her  leave  the  place ; 
And  then,  with  troubled  and  pale  face, 
He  gat  him  thence  :  and  soon  he  found 
His  good  horse  in  the  base-court  bound ; 
So,  loosing  him,  forth  did  he  ride, 
For  the  great  gates  were  open  wide, 
And  flat  the  heavy  drawbridge  lay. 

So  by  the  middle  of  the  day, 
That  murky  pass  had  he  gone  through, 
And  come  .to  country  that  he  knew  ; 
And  homeward  turned  his  horse's  head, 
And  passing  village  and  homestead 


368  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Nigh  to  his  palace  came  at  last ; 

And  still  the  further  that  he  passed 

From  that  strange  castle  of  the  fays, 

More  dreamlike  seemed  those  seven  days, 

And  dreamlike  the  delicious  night ; 

And  like  a  dream  the  shoulders  white, 

And  clinging  arms  and  yellow  hair, 

And  dreamlike  the  sad  morning  there. 

Until  at  last  he  'gan  to  deem 

That  all  might  well  have  been  a  dream  — 

Yet  why  was  life  a  weariness  ? 

What  meant  this  sting  of  sharp  distress  ? 

This  longing  for  a  hopeless  love, 

No  sighing  from  his  heart  could  move  ? 

Or  else,  "  She  did  not  come  and  go 
As  fays  might  do,  but  soft  and  slow 
Her  lovely  feet  fell  on  the  floor  ; 
She  set  her  fair  hand  to  the  door 
As  any  dainty  maid  might  do  ; 
And  though,  indeed,  there  are  but  few 
Beneath  the  sun  as  fair  as  she, 
She  seemed  a  fleshly  thing  to  be. 
Perchance  a  merry  mock  this  is, 
And  I  may  some  day  have  the  bliss 
To  see  her  lovely  face  again, 
As  smiling  she  makes  all  things  plain. 
And  then  as  I  am  still  a  king, 
With  me  may  she  make  tarrying 
Full  long,  yea,  till  I  come  to  die. " 

Therewith  at  last  being  come  anigh 
Unto  his  very  palace  gate, 
He  saw  his  knights  and  squires  wait 
His  coming,  therefore  on  the  ground 
He  lighted,  and  they  flocked  around 
Till  he  should  tell  them  of  his  fare. 
Then  mocking  said  he,  "  Ye  may  dare, 
The  worst  man  of  you  all,  to  go 
And  watch  as  I  was  bold  to  do  ; 
For  naught  I  heard  except  the  wind, 
And  naught  I  saw  to  call  to  mind." 
So  said  he,  but  they  noted  well 
That  something  more  he  had  to  tell 
If  it  had  pleased  him  ;  one  old  man, 
Beholding  his  changed  face  and  wan, 
Muttered,  "  Would  God  it  might  be  so  ! 


WATCHING   OF  THE  FALCON.  369 

Alas  !  I  fear  what  fate  may  do ; 

Too  much  good  fortune  hast  thou  had 

By  anything  to  be  more  glad 

Than  thou  hast  been,  I  fear  thee  then 

Lest  thou  becom'st  a  curse  to  men." 

But  to  his  place  the  doomed  King  passed, 

And  all  remembrance  strove  to  cast 

From  out  his  mind  of  that  past  day, 

And  spent  his  life  in  sport  and  play. 


/""*  REAT  among  other  kings,  I  said 
V_J  He  was  before  he  first  was  led 
Unto  that  castle  of  the  fays, 
But  soon  he  lost  his  happy  days 
And  all  his  goodly  life  was  done. 

And  first  indeed  his  best-loved  son, 
The  very  apple  of  his  eye, 
Waged  war  against  him  bitterly  ; 
And  when  this  son  was  overcome 
And  taken,  and  folk  led  him  home, 
And  him  the  King  had  gone  to  meet, 
Meaning  with  gentle  words  and  sweet 
To  win  him  to  his  love  again, 
By  his  own  hand  he  found  him  slain. 

I  know  not  if  the  doomed  King  yet 
Remembered  the  fay  lady's  threat, 
But  troubles  upon  troubles  came  : 
His  daughter  next  was  brought  to  shame, 
Who  unto  all  eyes  seemed  to  be 
The  image  of  all  purity, 
And  fleeing  from  the  royal  place 
The  King  no  more  beheld  her  face. 
Then  next  a  folk  that  came  from  far 
Sent  to  the  King  great  threats  of  war, 
But  he,  full  fed  of  victory, 
Deemed  this  a  little  thing  to  be, 
And  thought  the  troubles  of  his  home 
Thereby  he  well  might  overcome 
Amid  the  hurry  of  the  fight. 

His  foemen  seemed  of  little  might, 
Although  they  thronged  like  summer  bees 
About  the  outlying  villages, 
And  on  the  land  great  ruin  brought. 
24 


370  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Well,  he  this  barbarous  people  sought 
With  such  an  army  as  seemed  meet 
To  put  the  world  beneath  his  feet ; 
The  day  of  battle  came,  and  he, 
Flushed  with  the  hope  of  victory, 
Grew  happy,  as  he  had  not  been 
Since  he  those  glorious  eyes  had  seen. 

They  met,  —  his  solid  ranks  of  steel 
There  scarcely  more  the  darts  could  feel 
Of  those  new  foemen,  than  if  they 
Had  been  a  hundred  miles  away  :  — 
They  met,  —  a  storied  folk  were  his 
To  whom  sharp  war  had  long  been  bliss, 
A*  thousand  years  of  memories 
Were  flashing  in  their  shielded  eyes  ; 
And  grave  philosophers  they  had 
To  bid  them  ever  to  be  glad 
To  meet  their  death  and  get  life  done 
Midst  glorious  deeds  from  sire  to  son. 

And  those  they  met  were  beasts,  or  worse, 
To  whom  life  seemed  a  jest,  a  curse  ; 
Of  fame  and  name  they  had  not  heard  ; 
Honor  to  them  was  but  a  word, 
A  word  spoke  in  another  tongue  ; 
No  memories  round  their  banners  clung, 
No  walls  they  knew,  no  art  of  war, 
By  hunger  were  they  driven  afar 
Unto  the  place  whereon  they  stood, 
Hungry  for  bestial  joys  and  blood. 

No  wonder  if  these  barbarous  men 
Were  slain  by  hundreds  to  each  ten 
Of  the  King's  brave  well-armored  folk, 
No  wonder  if  their  charges  broke 
To  nothing,  on  the  walls  of  steel, 
And  back  the  baffled  hordes  must  reel. 
So  stood  throughout  a  summer  day 
Scarce  touched  the  King's  most  fair  array, 
Yet  as  it  drew  to  eventide 
The  foe  still  surged  on  every  side, 
As  hopeless  hunger-bitten  men, 
About  his  folk  grown  wearied  then. 

Therewith  the  King  beheld  that  crowd 
Howling  and  dusk,  and  cried  aloud, 
"  What  do  ye,  soldiers?  and  how  long 
Shall  weak  folk  hold  in  check  the  strong  ? 


WATCHING   OF  THE  FALCON.  371 

Nay,  forward  banners  !  end  the  day 

And  show  these  folk  how  brave  men  play." 

The  young  knights  shouted  at  his  word, 

But  the  old  folk  in  terror  heard 

The  shouting  run  adown  the  line, 

And  saw  men  flush  as  if  with  wine. 

"  O  Sire,"  they  said,  "  the  day  is  sure, 

Nor  will  these  folk  the  night  endure 

Beset  with  misery  and  fears." 

Alas  !  they  spoke  to  heedless  ears  ; 

For  scarce  one  look  on  them  he  cast, 

But  forward  through  the  ranks  he  passed, 

And  cried  out,  "  Who  will  follow  me 

To  win  a  fruitful  victory  ?  " 

And  toward  the  foe  in  haste  he  spurred, 

And  at  his  back  their  shouts  he  heard, 

Such  shouts  as  he  ne'er  heard  again. 

They  met  —  ere  moonrise  all  the  plain 
Was  filled  by  men  in  hurrying  flight 
The  relics  of  that  shameful  fight ; 
The  close  array,  the  full-armed  men, 
The  ancient  fame  availed  not  then, 
The  dark  night  only  was  a  friend 
To  bring  that  slaughter  to  an  end  ; 
And  surely  there  the  King  had  died, 
But  driven  by  that  back-rushing  tide 
Against  his  will  he  needs  must  flee ; 
And,  as  he  pondered  bitterly 
On  all  that  wreck  that  he  had  wrought, 
From  time  to  time  indeed  he  thought 
Of  the  fay  woman's  dreadful  threat. 

"  But  everything  was  not  lost  yet"  ; 
Next  day  he  said,  great  was  the  rout 
And  shameful  beyond  any  doubt, 
But  since  indeed  at  eventide 
The  rout  began,  not  many  died, 
And  gathering  all  the  stragglers  now 
His  troops  still  made  a  gallant  show  — 
Alas  !  it  was  a  show  indeed  ; 
Himself  desponding,  did  he  lead 
His  beaten  men  against  the  foe, 
Thinking  at  least  to  lie  alow 
Before  the  final  rout  should  be  ; 
But  scarce  upon  the  enemy 


372  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Could  these,  whose  shaken  banners  shook 
The  frightened  world,  now  dare  to  look  ; 
Nor  yet  could  the  doomed  King  die  there 
A  death  he  once  had  held  most  fair  ; 
Amid  unwounded  men  he  came 
Back  to  his  city,  bent  with  shame, 
Unkingly,  midst  his  great  distress, 
Yea,  weeping  at  the  bitterness 
Of  women's  curses  that  did  greet 
His  passage  down  the  troubled  street 

But  sight  of  all  the  things  they  loved, 
The  memory  of  their  manhood,  moved 
Within  the  troops,  and  aged  men 
And  boys  must  think  of  battle  then, 
And  men  that  had  not  seen  the  foe 
Must  clamor  to  the  war  to  go. 
So  a  great  army  poured  once  more 
From  out  the  city,  and  before 
The  very  gates  they  fought  again, 
But  their  late  valor  was  in  vain  ; 
They  died  indeed,  and  that  was  good, 
But  naught  they  gained  for  all  the  blood 
Poured  out  like  water  ;  for  the  foe, 
Men  might  have  stayed  a  while  ago, 
A  match  for  very  gods  were  grown, 
So  like  the  field  in  June-tide  mown 
The  King's  men  fell,  and  but  in  vain 
The  remnant  strove  the  town  to  gain  ; 
Whose  battlements  were  naught  to  stay 
An  untaught  foe  upon  that  day, 
Though  many  a  tale  the  annals  told 
Of  sieges  in  the  days  of  old, 
When  all  the  world  then  knew  of  war 
From  that  fair  place  was  driven  afar. 

As  for  the  King,  a  charmed  life 
He  seemed  to  bear  ;  from  out  that  strife 
He  came  unhurt,  and  he  could  see, 
As  down  the  valley  he  did  flee 
With  his  most  wretched  company, 
His  palace  flaming  to  the  sky. 
Then  in  the  very  midst  of  -wo« 
His  yearning  thoughts  would  backward  go 
Unto  the  castle  of  the  fay  ; 
He  muttered,  "Shall  I  curse  that  day, 
The  last  delight  that  I  have  had, 


WATCHING  OF  THE  FALCON.  373 

For  certainly  I  then  was  glad  ? 
And  who  knows  if  what  men  call  bliss 
Had  been  much  better  now  than  this 
When  I  am  hastening  to  the  end  ?  " 

That  fearful  rest,  that  dreaded  friend, 
That  Death,  he  did  not  gain  as  yet ; 
A  band  of  men  he  soon  did  get, 
A  ruined  rout  of  bad  and  good, 
With  whom  within  the  tangled  wood, 
The  rugged  mountain,  he  abode, 
And  thenceforth  oftentimes  they  rode 
Into  the  fair  land  once  called  his, 
And  yet  but  little  came  of  this, 
Except  more  woe  for  Heaven  to  see 
Some  little  added  misery 
Unto  that  miserable  realm  : 
The  barbarous  foe  did  overwhelm 
The  cities  and  the  fertile  plain, 
And  many  a  peaceful  man  was  slain, 
And  many  a  maiden  brought  to  shame, 
And  yielded  towns  were  set  aflame  ; 
For  all  the  land  was  masterless. 

Long  dwelt  the  King  in  great  distress 
From  wood  to  mountain  ever  tost, 
Mourning  for  all  that  he  had  lost, 
Until  it  chanced  upon  a  day, 
Asleep  in  early  morn  he  lay, 
And  in  a  vision  there  did  see, 
Clad  all  in  black,  that  fay  lady 
Whereby  all  this  had  come  to  pass, 
But  dim  as  in  a  misty  glass  : 
She  said,"  I  come  thy  death  to  tell 
Yet  now  to  thee  may  say  '  farewell,' 
For  in  a  short  space  wilt  thou  be 
Within  an  endless  dim  country 
Where  thou  mayest  well  win  woe  or  bliss. " 
Therewith  she  stooped  his  lips  to  kiss 
And  vanished  straightway  from  his  sight, 
So  waking  there  he  sat  upright 
And  looked  around,  but  naught  could  see 
And  heard  but  song-birds'  melody, 
For  it  was  the  first  hour  of  day. 

Then  with  a  sigh  adown  he  lay 
And  slept,  nor  ever  woke  again, 


374  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

For  that  same  hour  was  he  slain 
By  stealthy  traitors  as  he  slept 

He  of  a  few  was  much  bewept, 
But  of  most  men  was  well  forgot 
While  that  town's  ashes  still  were  hot 
The  foeman  on  that  day  did  bum. 

As  for  the  land,  great  Time  did  turn 
The  bloody  fields  to  deep  green  grass, 
And  from  the  minds  of  men  did  pass 
The  memory  of  that  time  of  woe, 
And  at  this  day  all  things  are  so 
As  first  I  said  ;  a  land  it  is 
Where  men  may  dwell  in  rest  and  bliss 
If  so  they  will  —  who  yet  will  not, 
Because  their  hasty  hearts  are  hot 
With  foolish  hate,  and  longing  vain, 
The  sire  and  dam  of  grief  and  pain. 


EATH  the  bright  sky  cool  grew  the  weary  earth, 

And  many  a  bud  in  that  fair  hour  had  birth 
Upon  the  garden  bushes  ;  in  the  west 
The  sky  got  ready  for  the  great  sun's  rest, 
And  all  was  fresh  and  lovely  ;  none  the  less 
Although  those  old  men  shared  the  happiness 
Of  the  bright  eve,  't  was  mixed  with  memories 
Of  how  they  might  in  old  times  have  been  wise, 
Not  casting  by  for  very  wilfulness 
What  wealth  might  come  their  changing  life  to  bless ; 
Lulling  their  hearts  to  sleep,  amid  the  cold 
Of  bitter  times,  that  so  they  might  behold 
Some  joy  at  last,  e'en  if  it  lingered  long. 
That,  wearing  not  their  souls  with  grief  and  wrong, 
They  still  might  watch  the  changing  world  go  by, 
Content  to  live,  content  at  last  to  die. 

Alas  !  if  they  had  reached  content  at  last, 
It  was  perforce  when  all  their  strength  was  past ; 
And  after  loss  of  many  days  once  bright, 
With  foolish  hopes  of  unattained  delight. 


AUGUST. 

ACROSS  the  gap  made  by  our  English  hinds, 
Amidst  the  Roman's  handiwork,  behold 
Far  off  the  long-roofed  church  ;  the  shepherd  binds 
The  withy  round  the  hurdles  of  his  fold  ; 
Down  in  the  foss  the  river  fed  of  old, 
That  through  long  lapse  of  time  has  grown  to  be 
The  little  grassy  valley  that  you  see. 

Rest  here  awhile,  not  yet  the  eve  is  still, 
The  bees  are  wandering  yet,  and  you  may  hear 
The  barley  mowers  on  the  trenched  hill, 
The  sheep-bells,  and  the  restless  changing  weir, 
All  little  sounds  made  musical  and  clear 
Beneath  the  sky  that  burning  August  gives, 
While  yet  the  thought  of  glorious  Summer  lives. 

Ah,  love  !  such  happy  days,  such  days  as  these, 
Must  we  still  waste  them,  craving  for  the  best, 
Like  lovers  o'er  the  painted  images 
Of  those  who  once  their  yearning  hearts  have  blessed  ? 
Have  we  been  happy  on  our  day  of  rest  ? 
Thine  eyes  say  "yes,"  —  but  if  it  came  again, 
Perchance  its  ending  would  not  seem  so  vain. 


NOW  came  fulfilment  of  the  year's  desire, 
The  tall  wheat,  colored  by  the  August  fire 
Grew  heavy-headed,  dreading  its  decay, 
And  blacker  grew  the  elm-trees  day  by  day. 
About  the  edges  of  the  yellow  corn, 
And  o'er  the  gardens  grown  somewhat  outworn 
The  bees  went  hurrying  to  fill  up  their  store  ; 
The  apple-boughs  bent  over  more  and  more  ; 
With  peach  and  apricot  the  garden  wall, 
Was  odorous,  and  the  pears  began  to  fall 
From  off  the  high  tree  with  each  freshening  breeze. 

So  in  a  house  bordered  about  with  trees, 
A  little  raised  above  the  waving  gold, 
The  Wanderers  heard  this  marvellous  story  told, 
While,  'twixt  the  gleaming  flasks  of  ancient  wine, 
They  watched  the  reapers'  slow  advancing  line. 


PYGMALION   AND  THE  IMAGE. 


ARGUMENT. 

A  MAN  of  Cyprus,  a  Sculptor  named  Pygmalion,  made  an  Image  of  a 
Woman,  fairer  than  any  that  had  yet  been  seen,  and  in  the  end  came  to 
love  his  own  handiwork  as  though  it  had  been  alive  :  wherefore,  praying 
to  Venus  for  help,  he  obtained  his  end,  for  she  made  the  Image  alive 
indeed,  and  a  Woman,  and  Pygmalion  wedded  her. 

AT  Amathus,  that  from  the  southern  side 
Of  Cyprus  looks  across  the  Syrian  sea, 
There  did  in  ancient  time  a  man  abide 
Known  to  the  island-dwellers,  for  that  he 
Had  wrought  most  godlike  works  in  imagery, 
And  day  by  day  still  greater  honor  won, 
Which  man  our  old  books  call  Pygmalion. 

Yet  in  the  praise  of  men  small  joy  he  had, 
But  walked  abroad  with  downcast  brooding  face, 
Nor  yet  by  any  damsel  was  made  glad  ; 
For,  sooth  to  say,  the  women  of  that  place 
Must  seem  to  all  men  an  accursed  race, 
Who  with  the  turner  of  all  hearts  once  strove, 
So  in  their  hearts  must  carry  lust  for  love. 

Now  on  a  day  it  chanced  that  he  had  been 
About  the  streets,  and  on  the  crowded  quays, 
Rich  with  unopened  wealth  of  bales,  had  seen 
The  dark-eyed  merchants  of  the  southern  seas 
In  chaffer  with  the  base  Propoetides, 
And  heavy-hearted  gat  him  home  again, 
His  once-loved  life  grown  idle,  poor,  and  vain. 

And  there  upon  his  images  he  cast 
His  weary  eyes,  yet  little  noted  them, 
As  still  from  name  to  name  his  swift  thought  passed. 
For  what  to  him  was  Juno's  well-wrought  hem, 
Diana's  shaft,  or  Pallas'  olive-stem  ? 
What  help  could  Hermes'  rod  unto  him  give, 
Until  with  shadowy  things  he  came  to  live  ? 


PYGMALION  AND    THE  IMAGE.          377 

Yet  note,  that  though,  while  looking  on  the  sun, 
The  craftsman  o'er  his  work  some  morn  of  spring 
May  chide  his  useless  labor  never  done, 
For  all  his  murmurs,  with  no  other  thing 
He  soothes  his  heart,  and  dulls  thought's  poisonous  sting, 
And  thus  in  thought's  despite  the  world  goes  on ; 
And  so  it  was  with  this  Pygmalion. 

Unto  the  chisel  must  he  set  his  hand, 
And  slowly,  still  in  troubled  thought,  must  pace 
About  a  work  begun,  that  there  doth  stand, 
And  still  returning  to  the  self-same  place, 
Unto  the  image  now  must  set  his  face, 
And  with  a  sigh  his  wonted  toil  begin, 
Half  loathed,  half  loved,  a  little  rest  to  win. 

The  lessening  marble  that  he  worked  upon 
A  woman's  form  now  imaged  doubtfully, 
And  in  such  guise  the  work  had  he  begun, 
Because  when  he  the  untouched  block  did  see 
In  wandering  veins  that  form  there  seemed  to  be, 
Whereon  he  cried  out  in  a  careless  mood, 
"  O  lady  Venus,  make  this  presage  good ! 

"  And  then  this  block  of  stone  shall  be  thy  maid, 
And,  not  without  rich  golden  ornament, 
Shall  bide  within  thy  quivering  myrtle-shade." 
So  spoke  he,  but  the  goddess,  well  content, 
Unto  his  hand  such  godlike  mastery  sent, 
That  like  the  first  artificer  he  wrought, 
Who  made  the  gift  that  woe  to  all  men  brought. 

And  yet,  but  such  as  he  was  wont  to  do, 
At  first  indeed  that  work  divine  he  deemed, 
And  as  the  white  chips  from  the  chisel  flew 
Of  other  matters  languidly  he  dreamed, 
For  easy  to  his  hand  that  labor  seemed, 
And  he  was  stirred  with  many  a  troubling  thought, 
And  many  a  doubt  perplexed  him  as  he  wrought. 

And  yet,  again,  at  last  there  came  a  day 
When  smoother  and  more  shapely  grew  the  stone, 
And  he,  grown  eager,  put  all  thought  away 
But  that  which  touched  his  craftsmanship  alone, 
And  he  would  gaze  at  what  his  hands  had  done, 


378  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Until  his  heart  with  boundless  joy  would  swell 
That  all  was  wrought  so  wonderfully  well. 

Yet  long  it  was  ere  he  was  satisfied, 
And  with  his  pride  that  by  his  mastery 
This  thing  was  done,  whose  equal  far  and  wide 
In  no  town  of  the  world  a  man  could  see, 
Came  burning  longing  that  the  work  should  be 
E'en  better  still,  and  to  his  heart  there  came 
A  strange  and  strong  desire  he  could  not  name. 

The  night  seemed  long,  and  long  the  twilight  seemed, 
A  vain  thing  seemed  his  flowery  garden  fair ; 
Though  through  the  night  still  of  his  work  he  dreamed, 
And  though  his  smooth-stemmed  trees  so  nigh  it  were, 
That  thence  he  could  behold  the  marble  hair ; 
Naught  was  enough,  until  with  steel  in  hand 
He  came  before  the  wondrous  stone  to  stand. 

No  song  could  charm  him,  and  no  histories 
Of  men's  misdoings  could  avail  him  now, 
Nay,  scarcely  seaward  had  he  turned  his  eyes, 
If  men  had  said,  "  The  fierce  Tyrrhenians  row 
Up  through  the  bay,  rise  up  and  strike  a  blow 
For  life  and  goods  "  ;  for  naught  to  him  seemed  dear 
But  to  his  well-loved  work  to  be  anear. 

Then  vexed  he  grew,  and,  knowing  not  his  heart, 
Unto  himself  he  said,  "Ah,  what  is  this, 
That  I,  who  oft  was  happy  to  depart, 
And  wander  where  the  boughs  each  other  kiss 
'Neath  the  west  wind,  now  have  no  other  bliss 
But  in  vain  smoothing  of  this  marble  maid, 
Whose  chips  this  month  a  drachma  had  outweighed  ? 

"  Lo  I  will  get  me  to  the  woods  and  try 
If  I  my  woodcraft  have  forgotten  quite, 
And  then,  returning,  lay  this  folly  by, 
And  eat  my  fill,  and  sleep  my  sleep  anight, 
And  'gin  to  carve  a  Hercules  aright 
Upon  the  morrow,  and  perchance  indeed     • 
The  Theban  will  be  good  to  me  at  need." 

With  that  he  took  his  quiver  and  his  bow, 
And  through  the  gates  of  Amathus  he  went, 
And  toward  the  mountain  slopes  began  to  go, 


PYGMALION  AND    THE  IMAGE.  379 

Within  the  woods  to  work  out  his  intent. 
Fair  was  the  day,  the  honeyed  beanfield's  scent 
The  west  wind  bore  unto  him  ;  o'er  the  way 
The  glittering  noisy  poplar-leaves  did  play. 

All  things  were  moving  ;  as  his  hurried  feet 
Passed  by,  within  the  flowery  swath  he  heard 
The  sweeping  of  the  scythe,  the  swallow  fleet 
Rose  over  him,  the  sitting  partridge  stirred 
On  the  field's  edge  ;  the  brown  bee  by  him  whirred, 
Or  murmured  in  the  clover-flowers  below, 
But  he  with  bowed-down  head  failed  not  to  go. 

At  last  he  stopped,  and,  looking  round,  he  said, 
"  Like  one  whose  thirtieth  year  is  well  gone  by, 
The  day  is  getting  ready  to  be  dead  ; 
No  rest,  and  on  the  border  of  the  sky 
Already  the  great  banks  of  dark  haze  lie  ; 
No  rest  —  what  do  I  midst  this  stir  and  noise  ? 
What  part  have  I  in  these  unthinking  joys  ?  " 

With  that  he  turned,  and  toward  the  city-gate 
Through  the  sweet  fields  went  swifter  than  he  came, 
And  cast  his  heart  into  the  hands  of  fate  ; 
Nor  strove  with  it,  when  higher  'gan  to  flame 
That  strange  and  strong  desire  without  a  name  ; 
Till  panting,  thinking  of  naught  else,  once  more 
His  hand  was  on  the  latch  of  his  own  door. 

One  moment  there  he  lingered,  as  he  said, 
"  Alas  !  what  should  I  do  if  she  were  gone  ?  " 
But  even  with  that  word  his  brow  waxed  red 
To  hear  his  own  lips  name  a  thing  of  stone, 
As  though  the  gods  some  marvel  there  had  done, 
And  made  his  work  alive  ;  and  therewithal 
In  turn  great  pallor  on  his  face  did  fall. 

But  with  a  sigh  he  passed  into  the  house, 
Yet  even  then  his  chamber-door  must  hold, 
And  listen  there,  half  blind  and  timorous, 
Until  his  heart  should  wax  a  little  bold  ; 
Then  entering,  motionless  and  white  and  cold 
He  saw  the  image  stand  amidst  the  floor 
That  whitened  was  by  labor  done  before. 

Blinded  with  tears,  his  chisel  up  he  caught, 
And,  drawing  near,  and  sighing,  tenderly 


5o  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Upon  the  marvel  of  the  face  he  wrought, 
E'en  as  he  used  to  pass  the  long  days  by  ; 
But  his  sighs  changed  to  sobbing  presently, 
And  on  the  floor  the  useless  steel  he  flung, 
And,  weeping  loud,  about  the  image  clung. 

"  Alas  ! "  he  cried,  "  why  have  I  made  thee  then, 
That  thus  thou  mockest  me  ?  I  know  indeed 
That  many  such  as  thou  are  loved  of  men, 
Whose  passionate  eyes  poor  wretches  still  will  lead 
Into  their  net,  and  smile  to  see  them  bleed  ; 
But  these  the  gods  made,  and  this  hand  made  thee 
Who  wilt  not  speak  one  li ttle  word  to  me. " 

Then  from  the  image  did  he  draw  aback 
To  gaze  on  it  through  tears  ;  and  you  had  said, 
Regarding  it,  that  little  did  it  lack 
To  be  a  living  and  most  lovely  maid  ; 
Naked  it  was,  its  unbound  locks  were  laid 
Over  the  lovely  shoulders  ;  with  one  hand 
Reached  out,  as  to  a  lover,  did  it  stand, 

The  other  held  a  fair  rose  over-blown  ; 
No  smile  was  on  the  parted  lips,  the  eyes 
Seemed  as  if  even  now  great  love  had  shown 
Unto  them  something  of  its  sweet  surprise, 
Yet  saddened  them  with  half-seen  mysteries, 
And  still  midst  passion  maiden-like  she  seemed, 
As  though  of  love  unchanged  for  aye  she  dreamed. 

Reproachfully  beholding  all  her  grace, 
Pygmalion  stood,  until  he  grew  dry-eyed, 
And  then  at  last  he  turned  away  his  face 
As  if  from  her  cold  eyes  his  grief  to  hide ; 
And  thus  a  weary  while  did  he  abide, 
With  nothing  in  his  heart  but  vain  desire, 
The  ever-burning,  unconsuming  fire. 

But  when  again  he  turned  his  visage  round, 
His  eyes  were  brighter  and  no  more  he  wept, 
As  if  some  little  solace  he  had  found, 
Although  his  folly  none  the  more  had  slept, 
Rather  some  new-born  god-sent  madness  kept 
His  other  madness  from  destroying  him, 
And  made  the  hope  of  death  wax  faint  and  dim  : 


PYGMALION  AND   THE  IMAGE.  381 

For,  trembling  and  ashamed,  from  out  the  street 
Strong  men  he  called,  and  faint  with  jealousy 
He  caused  them  bear  the  ponderous,  moveless  feet 
Unto  the  chamber  where  he  used  to  lie, 
So  in  a  fair  niche  to  his  bed  anigh, 
Unwitting  of  his  woe,  they  set  it  down, 
Then  went  their  ways  beneath  his  troubled  frown. 

Then  to  his  treasury  he  went,  and  sought 
For  gems  for  its  adornment,  but  all  there 
Seemed  to  his  eager  eyes  but  poor  and  naught, 
Not  worthy  e'en  to  touch  her  rippled  hair, 
So  he,  departing,  through  the  streets  'gan  fare, 
And  from  the  merchants  at  a  mighty  cost 
Bought  gems  that  kings  for  no  good  deed  had  lost 

These  then  he  hung  her  senseless  neck  around, 
Set  on  her  fingers,  and  fair  arms  of  stone, 
Then  cast  himself  before  her  on  the  ground, 
Praying  for  grace  for  all  that  he  had  done 
In  leaving  her  untended  and  alone  ; 
And  still  with  every  hour  his  madness  grew, 
Though  all  his  folly  in  his  heart  he  knew. 

At  last  asleep  before  her  feet  he  lay, 
Worn  out  with  passion,  yet  this  burning  pain 
Returned  on  him,  when  with  the  light  of  day 
He  woke  and  wept  before  her  feet  again  ; 
Then  of  the  fresh  and  new-born  morning  fain, 
Into  his  garden  passed,  and  therefrom  bore 
Fresh  spoil  of  flowers  his  love  to  lay  before. 

A  little  altar,  with  fine  gold  o'erlaid, 
Was  in  his  house,  that  he  a  while  ago 
At  some  great  man's  command  had  deftly  made, 
And  this  he  now  must  take  and  set  below 
Her  well-wrought  feet,  and  there  must  red  flame  glow 
About  sweet  wood,  and  he  must  send  her  thence 
The  odor  of  Arabian  frankincense. 

Then  as  the  smoke  went  up,  he  prayed  and  said, 
"  Thou,  image,  hear'st  me  not,  nor  wilt  thou  speak, 
But  I  perchance  shall  know  when  I  am  dead, 
If  this  has  been  some  goddess'  sport,  to  seek 
A  wretch,  and  in  his  heart  infirm  and  weak 


382  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

To  set  her  glorious  image,  so  that  he, 
Loving  the  form  of  immortality, 

"  May  make  much  laughter  for  the  gods  above  : 
Hear  me,  and  if  my  love  misliketh  thee 
Then  take  my  life  away,  for  I  will  love 
Till  Death  unfeared  at  last  shall  come  to  me 
And  give  me  rest,  if  he  of  might  may  be 
To  slay  the  love  of  that  which  cannot  die, 
The  heavenly  beauty  that  can  ne'er  pass  by." 

No  word  indeed  the  moveless  image  said, 
But  with  the  sweet  grave  eyes  his  hands  had  wrought 
Still  gazed  down  on  his  bowed  imploring  head, 
Yet  his  own  words  some  solace  to  him  brought, 
Gilding  the  net  wherein  his  soul  was  caught 
With  something  like  to  hope,  and  all  that  day 
Some  tender  words  he  ever  found  to  say  ; 

And  still  he  felt  as  something  heard  him  speak  ; 
Sometimes  he  praised  her  beauty,  and  sometimes 
Reproached  her  in  a  feeble  voice  and  weak, 
And  at  the  last  drew  forth  a  book  of  rhymes, 
Wherein  were  writ  the  tales  of  many  climes, 
And  read  aloud  the  sweetness  hid  therein 
Of  lovers'  sorrows  and  their  tangled  sin. 

And  when  the  sun  went  down,  the  frankincense 
Again  upon  the  altar-flame  he  cast 
That,  througli  the  open  window  floating  thence, 
O'er  the  fresh  odors  of  the  garden  passed  ; 
And  so  another  day  was  gone  at  last, 
And  he  no  more  his  lovelorn  watch  could  keep, 
But  now  for  utter  weariness  must  sleep. 

But  in  the  night  he  dreamed  that  she  was  gone, 
And,  knowing  that  he  dreamed,  tried  hard  to  wake 
And  could  not,  but  forsaken  and  alone 
He  seemed  to  weep  as  though  his  heart  would  break, 
And  when  the  night  her  sleepy  veil  did  take 
From  off  the  world,  waking,  his  tears  he  found 
Still  wet  upon  the  pillow  all  around. 

Then  at  the  first,  bewildered  by  those  tears, 
He  fell  a-wondering  wherefore  he  had  wept, 
But  suddenly  remembering  all  his  fears, 


PYGMALION  AND    THE  IMAGE.  383 

Panting  with  terror,  from  the  bed  he  leapt, 
But  still  its  wonted  place  the  image  kept, 
Nor  moved  for  all  the  joyful  ecstasy 
Wherewith  he  blessed  the  day  that  showed  it  nigh. 

Then  came  the  morning  offering  and  the  day. 
Midst  flowers  and  words  of  love  and  kisses  sweet 
From  morn,  through  noon,  to  evening  passed  away, 
And  scarce  unhappy,  crouching  at  her  feet, 
He  saw  the  sun  descend  the  sea  to  meet ; 
And  scarce  unhappy  through  the  darkness  crept 
Unto  his  bed,  and  midst  soft  dreaming  slept 


BUT  the  next  morn,  e'en  while  the  incense-smoke 
At  sunrising  curled  round  about  her  head, 
Sweet  sound  of  songs  the  wonted  quiet  broke 
Down  in  the  street,  and  he  by  something  led, 
He  knew  not  what,  must  leave  his  prayer  unsaid, 
And  through  the  freshness  of  the  morn  must  see 
The  folk  who  went  with  that  sweet  minstrelsy  ; 

Damsels  and  youths  in  wonderful  attire, 
And  in  their  midst  upon  a  car  of  gold 
An  image  of  the  Mother  of  Desire, 
Wrought  by  his  hands  in  days  that  seemed  grown  old, 
Though  those  sweet  limbs  a  garment  did  infold, 
Colored  like  flame,  inwrought  with  precious  things, 
Most  fit  to  be  the  prize  of  striving  kings. 

Then  he  remembered  that  the  manner  was 
That  fair-clad  priests  the  lovely  Queen  should  take 
Thrice  in  the  year,  and  through  the  city  pass, 
And  with  sweet  songs  the  dreaming  folk  awake  ; 
And  through  the  clouds  a  light  there  seemed  to  break, 
When  he  remembered  all  the  tales  well  told 
About  her  glorious  kindly  deeds  of  old. 

So  his  unfinished  prayer  he  finished  not, 
But,  kneeling,  once  more  kissed  the  marble  feet, 
And,  while  his  heart  with  many  thoughts  waxed  hot, 
He  clad  himself  with  fresh  attire  and  meet 
For  that  bright  service,  and  with  blossoms  sweet 
Intwined  with  tender  leaves  he  crowned  his  head, 
And  followed  after  as  the  goddess  led. 


384  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

But  long  and  vain  unto  him  seemed  the  way 
Until  they  came  unto  her  house  again  ; 
Long  years,  the  while  they  went  about  to  lay 
The  honey-hiding  dwellers  on  the  plain, 
The  sweet  companions  of  the  yellowing  grain, 
Upon  her  golden  altar  ;  long  and  long 
Before,  at  end  of  their  delicious  song, 

They  stripped  her  of  her  weed  with  reverend  hands, 
And  showed  the  ivory  limbs  his  hand  had  wrought ; 
Yea,  and  too  long  e'en  then  ere  those  fair  bands, 
Dispersing  here  and  there,  the  shadow  sought 
Of  Indian  spice-trees  o'er  the  warm  sea  brought 
And,  toward  the  splashing  of  the  fountain  turned, 
Mocked  the  noon  sun  that  o'er  the  cloisters  burned. 

But  when  the  crowd  of  worshippers  was  gone, 
And  through  the  golden  dimness  of  the  place 
The  goddess'  very  servants  paced  alone, 
Or  some  lone  damsel  murmured  of  her  case 
Apart  from  prying  eyes,  he  turned  his  face 
Unto  that  image  made  with  toil  and  care, 
In  days  when  unto  him  it  seemed  most  fair. 

Dusky  and  dim,  though  rich  with  gems  and  gold, 
The  house  of  Venus  was  ;  high  in  the  dome 
The  burning  sunlight  you  might  now  behold, 
From  nowhere  else  the  light  of  day  might  come, 
To  curse  the  Shamefaced  Mother's  lovely  home  ; 
A  long  way  off  the  shrine,  the  fresh  sea-breeze, 
Now  just  arising,  brushed  the  myrtle-trees. 

The  torches  of  the  flower-crowned,  singing  band 
Erewhile,  indeed,  made  more  than  daylight  there, 
Lighting  the  painted  tales  of  many  a  land, 
And  carven  heroes,  with  their  unused  glare  ; 
But  now  a  few  soft,  glimmering  lamps  there  were, 
And  on  the  altar  a  thin,  flickering  flame 
Just  showed  the  golden  letters  of  her  name. 

Blue  in  the  dome  yet  hung  the  incense-cloud, 
And  still  its  perfume  lingered  all  around ; 
And,  trodden  by  the  light-foot,  fervent  crowd, 
Thick  lay  the  summer  flowers  upon  the  ground, 
And  now  from  far-off  halls  uprose  the  sound 


PYGMALION  AND    THE  IMAGE.  385 

Of  Lydian  music,  and  the  dancer's  cry, 

As  though  some  door  were  opened  suddenly. 

So  there  he  stood  that  help  from  her  to  gain, 
Bewildered  by  that  twilight  midst  of  day ; 
Downcast  with  listening  to  the  joyous  strain 
He  had  no  part  in,  hopeless  with  delay 
Of  all  the  fair  things  he  had  meant  to  say ; 
Yet,  as  the  incense  on  the  flame  he  cast, 
From  stammering  lips  and  pale  these  words  there  passed,  — 

"  O  thou  forgotten  help,  dost  thou  yet  know 
What  thing  it  is  I  need,  when  even  I, 
Bent  down  before  thee  in  this  shame  and  woe, 
Can  frame  no  set  of  words  to  tell  thee  why 
I  needs  must  pray  ?  O  help  me  or  I  die  ! 
Or  slay  me,  and  in  slaying  take  from  me 
Even  a  dead  man's  feeble  memory. 

"  Say  not  thine  help  I  have  been  slow  to  seek ; 
Here  have  I  been  from  the  first  hour  of  morn, 
Who  stand  before  thy  presence  faint  and  weak, 
Of  my  one  poor  delight  left  all  forlorn ; 
Trembling  with  many  fears,  the  hope  outworn 
I  had  when  first  I  left  my  love,  my  shame, 
To  call  upon  thine  oft-sung  glorious  name. " 

He  stopped  to  catch  his  breath,  for  as  a  sob 
Did  each  word  leave  his  mouth  ;  but  suddenly, 
Like  a  live  thing,  the  thin  flame  'gan  to  throb 
And  gather  force,  and  then  shot  up  on  high 
A  steady  spike  of  light,  that  drew  anigh 
The  sunbeam  in  the  dome,  then  sank  once  more 
Into  a  feeble  flicker  as  before. 

But  at  that  sight  the  nameless  hope  he  had, 
That  kept  him  living  midst  unhappiness, 
Stirred  in  his  breast,  and  with  changed  face  and  glad 
Unto  the  image  forward  must  he  press 
With  words  of  praise  his  first  word  to  redress, 
But  then  it  was  as  though  a  thick  black  cloud 
Altar  and  fire  and  ivory  limbs  did  shroud. 

He  staggered  back,  amazed  and  full  of  awe  ; 
But  when,  with  anxious  eyes,  he  gazed  around, 
About  him  still  the  worshippers  he  saw 
25 


386  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Sunk  in  their  wonted  works,  with  no  surprise 
At  what  to  him  seemed  awful  mysteries  ; 
Therewith  he  sighed  and  said,  "This,  too,  I  dream, 
No  better  day  upon  my  life  shall  beam. " 

And  yet  for  long  upon  the  place  he  gazed 
Where  other  folk  beheld  the  lovely  Queen  ; 
And  while  he  looked  the  dusky  veil  seemed  raised, 
And  everything  was  as  it  erst  had  been  ; 
And  then  he  said,  "  Such  marvels  I  have  seen 
As  some  sick  man  may  see  from  off  his  bed  : 
Ah,  I  am  sick,  and  would  that  I  were  dead  ! " 

Therewith,  not  questioning  his  heart  at  all, 
He  turned  away  and  left  the  holy  place, 
When  now  the  wide  sun  reddened  towards  his  fall, 
And  a  fresh  west  wind  held  the  clouds  in  chase ; 
But  coming  out,  at  first  he  hid  his  face 
Dazed  with  the  light,  and  in  the  porch  he  stood, 
Nor  wished  to  move,  or  change  his  dreary  mot  d. 

Yet  in  a  while  the  freshness  of  the  eve 
Pierced  to  his  weary  heart,  and  with  a  sigh 
He  raised  his  head,  and  slowly  'gan  to  leave 
The  high  carved  pillars  ;  and  so  presently 
Had  passed  the  grove  of  whispering  myrtles  by, 
And,  mid  the  many  noises  of  the  street, 
Made  himself  brave  the  eyes  of  men  to  meet 

Thronged  were  the  ways  with  folk  in  gay  attire, 
Nursing  the  end  of  that  festivity  ; 
Girls  fit  to  move  the  moody  man's  desire 
Brushed  past  him,  and  soft  dainty  minstrelsy 
He  heard  amid  the  laughter,  and  might  see, 
Through  open  doors,  the  garden's  green  delight, 
Where  pensive  lovers  waited  for  the  night ; 

Or  resting  dancers  round  the  fountain  drawn, 
With  faces  flushed  unto  the  breeze  turned  round, 
Or  wandering  o'er  the  fragrant  trodden  lawn, 
Took  up  their  fallen  garlands  from  the  ground, 
Or  languidly  their  scattered  tresses  bound, 
Or  let  their  gathered  raiment  fall  adown, 
With  eyes  downcast  beneath  their  lovers'  frown. 

What  hope  Pygmalion  yet  might  have,  when  he 
First  left  the  pillars  of  the  dreamy  place, 


PYGMALION  AND    THE  IMAGE.  387 

Amid  such  sights  had  vanished  utterly. 
He  turned  his  weary  eyes  from  face  to  face, 
Nor  noted  them,  as  at  a  lagging  pace 
He  gat  towards  home,  and  still  was  murmuring, 
'  Ah  life,  sweet  life !  the  only  godlike  thing  !  " 

And  as  he  went,  though  longing  to  be  there 
Whereas  his  sole  desire  awaited  him, 
Yet  did  he  loathe  to  see  the  image  fair, 
White  and  unchanged  of  face,  unmoved  of  limb, 
And  to  his  heart  came  dreamy  thoughts  and  dim 
That  unto  some  strange  region  he  might  come, 
Nor  ever  reach  again  his  loveless  home. 

Yet  soon,  indeed,  before  his  door  he  stood, 
And,  as  a  man  awaking  from  a  dream, 
Seemed  waked  from  his  old  folly ;  naught  seemed  good 
In  all  the  things  that  he  before  had  deemed 
At  least  worth  life,  and  on  his  heart  there  streamed 
Cold  light  of  day  —  he  found  himself  alone, 
Reft  of  desire,  all  love  and  madness  gone. 

And  yet  for  that  past  folly  must  he  weep, 
As  one  might  mourn  the  parted  happiness 
That,  mixed  with  madness,  made  him  smile  in  sleep  ; 
And  still  some  lingering  sweetness  seemed  to  bless 
The  hard  life  left  of  toil  and  loneliness, 
Like  a  past  song  too  sweet,  too  short,  and  yet 
Immeshed  forever  in  the  memory's  net. 

Weeping  he  entered,  murmuring,  "  O  fair  Queen, 
I  thank  thee  that  my  prayer  was  not  for  naught, 
Truly  a  present  helper  hast  thou  been 
To  those  who  faithfully  thy  throne  have  sought ! 
Yet,  since  with  pain  deliverance  I  have  bought, 
Hast  thou  not  yet  some  gift  in  store  for  me, 
That  I  thine  happy  slave  henceforth  may  be  ?  " 


THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 


r  I  ^HUS  to  his  chamber  at  the  last  he  came, 

X     And,  pushing  through  the  still  half-opened  door, 
He  stood  within  ;  but  there,  for  very  shame 
Of  all  the  things  that  he  had  done  before, 
Still  kept  his  eyes  bent  down  upon  the  floor, 
Thinking  of  all  that  he  had  done  and  said 
Since  he  had  wrought  that  luckless  marble  maid. 

Yet  soft  his  thoughts  were,  and  the  very  place 
Seemed  perfumed  with  some  nameless  heavenly  air  ; 
So  gaining  courage,  did  he  raise  his  face 
Unto  the  work  his  hands  had  made  so  fair, 
And  cried  aloud  to  see  the  niche  all  bare 
Of  that  sweet  form,  while  through  his  heart  again 
There  shot  a  pang  of  his  old  yearning  pain. 

Yet  while  he  stood,  and  knew  not  what  to  do 
With  yearning,  a  strange  thrill  of  hope  there  came, 
A  shaft  of  new  desire  now  pierced  him  through, 
And  therewithal  a  soft  voice  called  his  name, 
And  when  he  turned,  with  eager  eyes  aflame, 
He  saw  betwixt  him  and  the  setting  sun 
The  lively  image  of  his  loved  one. 

He  trembled  at  the  sight,  for  though  her  eyes, 
Her  very  lips,  were  such  as  he  had  made, 
And  though  her,  tresses  fell  but  in  such  guise 
As  he  had  wrought  them,  now  was  she  arrayed 
In  that  fair  garment  that  the  priests  had  laid 
Upon  the  goddess  on  that  very  morn,. 
Dyed  like  the  setting  sun  upon  the  corn. 

Speechless  he  stood,  but  she  now  drew  anear, 
Simple  and  sweet  as  she  was  wont  to  be, 
And  once  again  her  silver  voice  rang  clear, 
Filling  his  soul  with  great  felicity, 
And  thus  she  spoke,  "  Wilt  thou  not  come  to  me, 
O  dear  companion  of  my  new-found  life, 
For  I  am  called  thy  lover  and  thy  wife  ? 

"  Listen,  these  words  the  Dread  One  bade  me  say 
That  was  with  me  e'en  now,  Pygmalion, 
My  new-made  soul  I  give  to  thee  to-day. 
Come,  feel  the  sweet  breath  that  thy  prayer  has  won, 
And  lay  thine  hand  this  heaving  breast  upon  ! 


PYGMALION  AND    THE  IMAGE.  389 

Come,  love,  and  -walk  with  me  between  the  trees, 
And  feel  the  freshness  of  the  evening  breeze. 

"  Sweep  mine  hair  round  thy  neck  ;  behold  my  feet, 
The  oft-kissed  feet  thou  though?  st  should  never  move 
Press  down  the  daisies  !  draw  me  to  thee,  siveet, 
And  feel  the  warm  heart  of  thy  living  love 
Beat  against  thine,  and  bless  the  Seed  of  Jove, 
Whose  loving,  tender  heart  hath  wrought  all  this, 
And  wrapped  us  both  in  such  a  cloud  of  bliss. 

"  Ah,  thou  art  wise  to  know  what  this  may  mean  ! 
Sweet  seem  the  words  to  me,  and  needs  must  I 
Speak  all  the  lesson  of  the  lovely  queen  : 
But  this  I  know,  I  would  we  were  more  nigh, 
I  have  not  heard  thy  voice  but  in  the  cry 
Thou  utteredst  then,  when  thou  believedst  gone 
The  marvel  of  thine  hands,  the  maid  of  stone." 

She  reached  her  hand  to  him,  and  with  kind  eyes 
Gazed  into  his ;  but  he  the  fingers  caught 
And  drew  her  to  him,  and  midst  ecstasies 
Passing  all  words,  yea,  wellnigh  passing  thought, 
Felt  that  sweet  breath  that  he  so  long  had  sought, 
Felt  the  warm  life  within  her  heaving  breast 
As  in  his  arms  his  living  love  he  pressed. 

But  as  his  cheek  touched  hers  he  heard  her  say, 
"Wilt  thou  not  speak,  O  love?  why  dost  thou  weep? 
Art  thou  then  sorry  for  this  long-wished  day, 
Or  dost  thou  think  perchance  thou  wilt  not  keep 
This  that  thou  holdest  but  in  dreamy  sleep? 
Nay,  let  us  do  the  bidding  of  the  Queen, 
And  hand  in  hand  walk  through  thy  garden  green  ; 

"  Then  shalt  thou  tell  me,  still  beholding  me, 
Full  many  things  whereof  I  wish  to  know, 
And  as  we  walk  from  whispering  tree  to  tree 
Still  more  familiar  to  thee  shall  I  grow, 
And  such  things  shalt  thou  say  unto  me  now 
As  when  thou  deemedst  thou  wast  quite  alone, 
A  madman,  kneeling  to  a  thing  of  stone." 

But  at  that  word  a  smile  lit  up  his  eyes, 
And  therewithal  he  spake  some  loving  word, 
And  she  at  first  looked  up  in  grave  surprise 
When  his  deep  voice  and  musical  she  heard, 


390  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And  clung  to  him  as  somewhat  grown  afeard  ; 
Then  cried  aloud  and  said,  "  O  mighty  one ! 
What  joy  with  thee  to  look  upon  the  sun. " 

Then  into  that  fair  garden  did  they  pass, 
And  all  the  story  of  his  love  he  told, 
And,  as  the  twain  went  o'er  the  dewy  grass, 
Beneath  the  risen  moon  could  he  behold 
The  bright  tears  trickling  down,  then,  waxen  bold, 
He  stopped  and  said,  "  Ah,  love,  what  meaneth  this  ? 
Seest  thou  how  tears  still  follow  earthly  bliss  ? 

Then  both  her  white  arms  round  his  neck  she  threw, 

And  sobbing  said,  "  O  love,  what  hurteth  me  ? 

When  first  the  sweetness  of  my  life  I  knew, 

Not  this  I  felt,  but  when  I  first  saw  thee 

A  little  pain  and  great  felicity 

Rose  up  within  me,  and  thy  talk  e'en  now 

Made  pain  and  pleasure  ever  greater  grow  ?  " 

"  O  sweet,"  he  said,  "  this  thing  is  even  love, 
Whereof  I  told  thee ;  that  all  wise  men  fear, 
But  yet  escape  not ;  nay,  to  gods  above, 
Unless  the  old  tales  lie,  it  draweth  near. 
But  let  my  happy  ears,  I  pray  thee,  hear 
Thy  story  too,  and  how  thy  blessed  birth 
Has  made  a  heaven  of  this  once  lonely  earth." 

"  My  sweet,"  she  said,  "  as  yet  I  am  not  wise, 
Or  stofed  with  words,  aright  the  tale  to  tell, 
But  listen  :  when  I  opened  first  mine  eyes 
I  stood  within  the  niche  thou  knowest  well, 
And  from  mine  hand  a  heavy  thing  there  fell 
Carved  like  these  flowers,  nor  could  I  see  things  clear, 
And  but  a  strange  confused  noise  could  hear. 

"At  last  mine  eyes  could  see  a  woman  fair, 
But  awful  as  this  round  white  moon  o'erhead, 
So  that  I  trembled  when  I  saw  her  there, 
For  with  my  life  was  born  some  touch  of  dread, 
And  therewithal  I  heard  her  voice  that  said, 
'  Come  down,  and  learn  to  love  and  be  alive, 
For  thee,  a  well-prized  gift,  to-day  I  give.' 

"  Then  on  the  floor  I  stepped,  rejoicing  much, 
Not  knowing  why,  not  knowing  aught  at  all, 
Till  she  reached  out  her  hand  my  breast  to  touch, 


PYGMALION  AND    THE  IMAGE.  391 

And  when  her  fingers  thereupon  did  fall, 
Thought  came  unto  my  life,  and  therewithal 
I  knew  her  for  a  goddess,  and  began 
To  murmur  in  some  tongue  unknown  to  man. 

"  And  then  indeed  not  in  this  guise  was  I, 
No  sandals  had  I  and  no  saffron  gown, 
But  naked  as  thou  knowest  utterly, 
E'en  as  my  limbs  beneath  thine  hand  had  grown, 
And  this  fair  perfumed  robe  then  fell  adown 
Over  the  goddess'  feet  and  swept  the  ground, 
And  round  her  loins  a  glittering  belt  was  bound. 

' '  But  when  the  stammering  of  my  tongue  she  heard, 
Upon  my  trembling  lips  her  hand  she  laid, 
And  spoke  again,  '  Nay,  say  not  any  word, 
All  that  thine  heart  would  say  I  know  unsaid, 
Who  even  now  thine  heart  and  voice  have  made  ; 
But  listen  rather,  for  thou  knowest  now 
What  these  words  mean,  and  still  wilt  wiser  grow. 

"  '  Thy  body,  lifeless  till  I  gave  it  life, 
A  certain  man,  my  servant,  well  hath  wrought, 
I  give  thee  to  him  as  his  love  and  wife, 
With  all  thy  dowry  of  desire  and  thought, 
Since  this  his  yearning  heart  hath  ever  sought ; 
Now  from  my  temple  is  he  on  the  way, 
Deeming  to  find  thee  e'en  as  yesterday  ; 

"  '  Bide  thou  his  coming  by  the  bed-head  there, 
And  when  thou  seest  him  set  his  eyes  upon 
Thine  empty  niche,  and  hear'st  him  cry  for  care, 
Then  call  him  by  his  name  Pygmalion, 
And  certainly  thy  lover  hast  thou  won  ; 
But  when  he  stands  before  thee  silently, 
Say  all  these  words  that  I  shall  teach  to  thee.' 

"With  that  she  said  what  first  I  told  thee,  love, 
And  then  went  on,  '  Moreover  thou  shalt  say 
That  I,  the  daughter  of  almighty  Jove, 
Have  wrought  for  him  this  long-desired  day  ; 
In  sign  whereof,  these  things  that  pass  away, 
Wherein  mine  image  men  have  well  arrayed, 
I  give  thee  for  thy  wedding  gear,  O  maid.' 

' '  Therewith  her  raiment  she  put  off  from  her, 
And  laid  bare  all  her  perfect  loveliness, 


392  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And,  smiling  on  me,  came  yet  more  anear, 
And  on  my  mortal  lips  her  lips  did  press, 
And  said,  '  Now  herewith  shalt  thou  love  no  less 
Than  Psyche  loved  my  son  in  days  of  old  ; 
Farewell,  of  thee  shall  many  a  tale  be  told. ' 

"  And  even  with  that  last  word  was  she  gone, 
How  I  know  not,  and  I  my  limbs  arrayed 
In  her  fair  gifts,  and  waited  thee  alone  — 
Ah,  love,  indeed  the  word  is  true  she  said, 
For  now  I  love  thee  so,  I  grow  afraid 
Of  what  the  gods  upon  our  heads  may  send  — 
I  love  thee  so,  I  think  upon  the  end. " 

What  words  he  said  ?     How  can  I  tell  again 
What  words  they  said  beneath  the  glimmering  light  ? 
Some  tongue  they  used  unknown  to  loveless  men, 
As  each  to  each  they  told  their  great  delight, 
Until  for  stillness  of  the  growing  night 
Their  soft  sweet  murmuring  words  seemed  growing  loud, 
And  dim  the  moon  grew,  hid  by  fleecy  cloud. 


SUCH  was  the  ending  of  his  ancient  rhyme, 
That  seemed  to  fit  that  soft  and  golden  time, 
When  men  were  happy,  they  could  scarce  tell  why, 
Although  they  felt  the  rich  year  slipping  by. 
The  sun  went  down,  the  harvest-moon  arose, 
And  'twixt  the  slim  trees  of  that  fruitful  close 
They  saw  the  corn  still  falling  'neath  its  light, 
While  through  the  soft  air  of  the  windless  night 
The  voices  of  the  reapers'  mates  rang  clear 
In  measured  song,  as  of  the  fruitful  year 
They  told,  and  its  delights,  and  now  and  then 
The  rougher  voices  of  the  toiling  men 
Joined  in  the  song,  as  one  by  one,  released 
From  that  hard  toil,  they  sauntered  towards  the  feast 
That  waited  them  upon  the  strip  of  grass 
That  through  the  golden  glimmering  sea  did  pass. 

But  those  old  men,  glad  to  have  lived  so  long, 
Sat  listening  through  the  twilight  to  the  song, 
And  when  the  night  grew  and  all  things  were  still 
Throughout  the  wide  vale  from  green  hill  to  hill, 
Unto  a  happy  harvesting  they  drank 
Till  once  more  o'er  the  hills  the  white  moon  sank. 


AUGUST.  393 


A   UGUST  had  not  gone  by,  though  now  was  stored 
_/\_     In  the  sweet-smelling  granaries  all  the  hoard 
Of  golden  com  ;  the  land  had  made  her  gain, 
And  winter  should  howl  round  her  doors  in  vain. 
But  o'er  the  same  fields  gray  now  and  forlorn 
The  old  men  sat  and  heard  the  swineherd's  horn, 
Far  off  across  the  stubble,  when  the  day 
At  end  of  harvest-tide  was  sad  and  gray  ; 
And  rain  was  in  the  wind's  voice  as  it  swept 
Along  the  hedges  where  the  lone  quail  crept, 
Beneath  the  chattering  of  the  restless  pie. 
The  fruit-hung  branches  moved,  and  suddenly 
The  trembling  apples  smote  the  dewless  grass, 
And  all  the  year  to  autumn-tide  did  pass. 
E'en  such  a  day  it  was  as  young  men  love 
When  swiftly  through  the  veins  the  blood  doth  move, 
And  they,  whose  eyes  can  see  not  death  at  all, 
To  thoughts  of  stirring  deeds  and  pleasure  fall,  ' 
Because  it  seems  to  them  to  tell  of  life 
After  the  dreamy  days  devoid  of  strife, 
When  every  day  with  sunshine  is  begun, 
And  cloudless  skies  receive  the  setting  sun. 

On  such  a  day  the  older  folk  were  fain 
Of  something  new  somewhat  to  dull  the  pain 
Of  sad,  importunate  old  memories 
That  to  their  weary  hearts  must  needs  arise. 

Alas  !  what  new  things  on  that  day  could  come 
From  hearts  that  now  so  long  had  been  the  home 
Of  such  dull  thoughts,  nay,  rather  let  them  tell 
Some  tale  that  fits  their  ancient  longings  well. 

Rolf  was  the  speaker,  who  said,  "Friends,  behold 
This  is  e'en  such  a  tale  as  those  once  told 
Unto  my  greedy  ears  by  Nicholas, 
Before  our  quest  for  nothing  came  to  pass." 


OGIER    THE    DANE. 


ARGUMENT. 

WHEN  Ogier  was  born,  six  fay  ladies  came  to  the  cradle  where  he  lay, 
and  gave  him  various  gifts,  as  to  be  brave  and  happy  and  the  like  ;  but 
the  sixth  gave  him  to  be  her  love  when  he  should  have  lived  long  in  the 
world :  so  Ogier  grew  up  and  became  the  greatest  of  knights,  and  at 
last,  after  many  years,  fell  into  the  hands  of  that  fay,  and  with  her,  as 
the  story  tells,  he  lives  now,  though  he  returned  once  to  the  world,  as  is 
shown  in  the  process  of  this  tale. 

WITHIX  some  Danish  city  by  the  sea, 
Whose  name,  changed  now,  is  all  unknown  to  me, 
Great  mourning  was  there  one  fair  summer  eve, 
Because  the  angels,  bidden  to  receive 
The  fair  Queen's  lovely  soul  in  Paradise, 
Had  done  their  bidding,  and  in  royal  guise 
Her  helpless  body,  once  the  prize  of  love, 
Unable  now  for  fear  or  hope  to  move, 
Lay  underneath  the  golden  canopy  ; 
And  bowed  down  by  unkingly  misery 
The  King  sat  by  it,  and  not  far  away 
Within  the  chamber  a  fair  man-child  lay, 
His  mother's  bane,  the  king  that  was  to  be, 
Not  witting  yet  of  any  royalty, 
Harmless  and  loved,  although  so  new  to  life. 

Calm  the  June  evening  was,  no  sign  of  strife 
The  clear  sky  showed,  no  storm  grew  round  the  sun, 
Unhappy  that  his  day  of  bliss  was  done  ; 
Dumb  was  the  sea,  and  if  the  beech-wood  stirred, 
'T  was  with  the  nestling  of  the  gray-winged  bird 
Midst  its  thick  leaves  ;  and  though  the  nightingale 
Her  ancient,  hapless  sorrow  must  bewail, 
No  more  of  woe  there  seemed  in  her  song 
Than  such  as  doth  to  lovers'  words  belong, 
Because  their  love  is  still  unsatisfied. 

But  to  the  King,  on  that  sweet  eventide, 
No  earth  there  seemed,  no  heaven  when  earth  was  gone ; 
No  help,  no  God !  but  lonely  pain  alone  ; 
And  he,  midst  unreal  shadows,  seemed  to  sit 


OGIER   THE  DANE.  395 

Himself  the  very  heart  and  soul  of  it 
But  round  the  cradle  of  the  new-born  child 
The  nurses  now  the  weary  time  beguiled 
With  stories  of  the  just-departed  Queen  ; 
And  how,  amid  the  heathen  folk  first  seen, 
She  had  been  won  to  love  and  godliness  ; 
And  as  they  spoke,  e'en  midst  his  dull  distress, 
An  eager  whisper  now  and  then  would  smite 
Upon  the  King's  ear,  of  some  past  delight, 
Some  once  familiar  name,  and  he  would  raise 
His  weary  head,  and  on  the  speaker  gaze 
Like  one  about  to  speak,  but  soon  again 
Would  drop  his  head  and  be  alone  with  pain, 
Nor  think  of  these  ;  who,  silent  in  their  turn, 
Would  sit  and  watch  the  waxen  tapers  burn 
Amidst  the  dusk  of  the  quick -gathering  night, 
Until,  beneath  the  high  stars'  glimmering  light, 
The  fresh  earth  lay  in  colorless  repose. 

So  passed  the  night,  and  now  and  then  one  rose 
From  out  her  place  to  do  what  might  avail 
To  still  the  new-born  infant's  fretful  wail ; 
Or  through  the  softly-opened  door  there  came 
Some  nurse  new-waked,  who,  whispering  low  the  name 
Of  her  whose  turn  was  come,  would  take  her  place  ; 
Then  toward  the  King  would  turn  about  her  face, 
And  to  her  fellows  whisper  of  the  day, 
And  tell  again  of  her  just  past  away. 

So  passed  the  night,  the  moon  arose  and  grew, 
From  off  the  sea  a  little  west  wind  blew, 
Rustling  the  garden-leaves  like  sudden  rain  ; 
And  ere  the  moon  had  'gun  to  fall  again 
The  wind  grew  cold,  a  change  was  in  the  sky, 
And  in  deep  silence  did  the  dawn  draw  nigh  : 
Then  from  her  place  a  nurse  -arose  to  light 
Fresh  hallowed  lights,  for,  dying  with  the  night, 
The  tapers  round  about  the  dead  Queen  were  ; 
But  the  King  raised  his  head  and  'gan  to  stare 
Upon  her,  as  her  sweeping  gown  did  glide 
About  the  floor,  that  in  the  stillness  cried 
Beneath  her  careful  feet ;  and  now,  as  she 
Had  lit  the  second  candle  carefully, 
And  on  its  silver  spike  another  one 
Was  setting,  through  her  body  did  there  run 
A  sudden  tremor,  and  the  hand  was  stayed 
That  on  the  dainty  painted  wax  was  laid ; 


396  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Her  eyelids  fell  down  and  she  seemed  to  sleep, 
And  o'er  the  staring  King  began  to  creep 
Sweet  slumber  too  ;  the  bitter  lines  of  \voe 
That  drew  his  weary  face  did  softer  grow, 
His  eyelids  dropped,  his  arms  fell  to  his  side  ; 
And  moveless  in  their  places  did  abide 
The  nursing  women,  held  by  some  strong  spell, 
E'en  as  they  were,  and  utter  silence  fell 
Upon  the  mournful,  glimmering  chamber  fair. 

Bat  now  light  footsteps  coming  up  the  stair 
Smote  on  the  deadly  stillness,  and  the  sound 
Of  silken  dresses  trailing  o'er  the  ground  ; 
And  heavenly  odors  through  the  chamber  passed, 
Unlike  the  scents  that  rose  and  lily  cast 
Upon  the  freshness  of  the  dying  night ; 
Then  nigher  drew  the  sound  of  footsteps  light 
Until  the  door  swung  open  noiselessly  — 
A  mass  of  sunlit  flowers  there  seemed  to  be 
Within  the  doorway,  and  but  pale  and  wan 
The  flame  showed  now  that  serveth  mortal  man, 
As  one  by  one  six  seeming  ladies  passed 
Into  the  room,  and  o'er  its  sorrow  cast 
That  thoughtless  sense  of  joy  bewildering, 
That  kisses  youthful  hearts  amidst  of  spring ; 
Crowned  were  they,  in  such  glorious  raiment  clad, 
As  yet  no  merchant  of  the  world  has  had 
Within  his  coffers  ;  yet  those  crowns  seemed  fair 
Only  because  they  kissed  their  odorous  hair, 
And  all  that  flowery  raiment  was  but  blessed 
By  those  fair  bodies  that  its  splendor  pressed. 

Now  to  the  cradle  from  that  glorious  band 
A  woman  passed,  and  laid  a  tender  hand 
Upon  the  babe,  and  gently  drew  aside 
The  swa things  soft  that  did  his  body  hide  ; 
And,  seeing  him  so  fair  and  great,  she  smiled, 
And  stooped,  and  kissed  him,  saying,  "  O  noble  child, 
Have  thou  a  gift  from  Gloriande  this  day  ; 
For  to  the  time  when  life  shall  pass  away 
From  this  dear  heart,  no  fear  of  death  or  shame, 
No  weariness  of  good  shall  foul  thy  name." 

So  saying,  to  her  sisters  she  returned ; 
And  one  came  forth,  upon  whose  brow  there  burned 
A  crown  of  rubies,  and  whose  heaving  breast 
With  happy  rings  a  golden  hauberk  pressed  ; 
She  took  the  babe,  and  somewhat  frowning  said, 
"  This  gift  I  give,  that,  till  thy  limbs  are  laid 


OGIER   THE  DANE.  397 

At  rest  forever,  to  thine  honored  life 
There  never  shall  be  lacking  war  and  strife, 
That  thou  a  long-enduring  name  may'st  win, 
And  by  thy  deeds  good  pardon  for  thy  sin." 

With  that  another,  who,  unseen,  meanwhile 
Had  drawn  anigh,  said  with  a  joyous  smile, 
"  And  this  forgotten  gift  to  thee  I  give, 
That  while  amidst  the  turmoil  thou  dost  live, 
Still  shalt  thou  win  the  game,  and  unto  thee 
Defeat  and  shame  but  idle  words  shall  be." 

Then  back  they  turned,  and  therewithal,  the  fourth 
Said,  "  Take  this  gift  for  what  it  may  be  worth, 
For  that  is  mine  to  give  ;  lo,  thou  shalt  be 
Gentle  of  speech,  and  in  all  courtesy 
The  first  of  men  :  a  little  gift  this  is, 
After  these  promises  of  fame  and  bliss." 

Then  toward  the  babe  the  fifth  fair  woman  went ; 
Gray-eyed  she  was,  and  simple,  with  eyes  bent 
Down  on  the  floor,  parted  her  red  lips  were, 
And  o'er  her  sweet  face  marvellously  fair 
Oft  would  the  color  spread  full  suddenly  ; 
Clad  in  a  dainty  gown  and  thin  was  she, 
For  some  green  summer  of  the  fay-land  dight, 
Tripping  she  went,  and  laid  her  fingers  light 
Upon  the  child,  and  said,  "  O  little  one, 
As  long  as  thou  shalt  look  upon  the  sun 
Shall  women  long  for  thee ;  take  heed  to  this 
And  give  them  what  thou  canst  of  love  and  bliss. " 

Then,  blushing  for  her  words,  therefrom  she  passed, 
And  by  the  cradle  stood  the  sixth  and  last, 
The  fairest  of  them  all ;  awhile  she  gazed 
Down  on  the  child,  and  then  her  hand  she  raised, 
And  made  the  one  side  of  her  bosom  bare  ; 
"  Ogier,"  she  said,  "  if  this  be  foul  or  fair 
Thou  know'st  not  now,  but  when  thine  earthly  life 
Is  drunk  out  to  the  dregs,  and  war  and  strife 
Have  yielded  thee  whatever  joy  they  may, 
Thine  head  upon  this  bosom  shalt  thou  lay  ; 
And  then,  despite  of  knowledge  or  of  God, 
Will  we  be  glad  upon  the  flowery  sod 
Within  the  happy  country  where  I  dwell : 
Ogier,  my  love  that  is  to  be,  farewell ! " 

She  turned,  and  even  as  they  came  they  passed 
From  out  the  place,  and  reached  the  gate  at  last 
That  oped  before  their  feet,  and  speedily 


398  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

They  gained  the  edges  of  the  murmuring  sea, 
And  as  they  stood  in  silence,  gazing  there 
Out  to  the  west,  they  vanished  into  air, 
I  know  not  how,  nor  whereto  they  returned. 

But  mixed  with  twilight  in  the  chamber  burned 
The  flickering  candles,  and  those  dreary  folk, 
Unlike  to  sleepers,  from  their  trance  awoke, 
But  naught  of  what  had  happed  meanwhile  they  knew  ; 
Through  the  half-opened  casements  now  there  blew 
A  sweet  fresh  air,  that  of  the  flowers  and  sea 
Mingled  together,  smelt  deliciously, 
And  from  the  unseen  sun  the  spreading  light 
Began  to  make  the  fair  June  blossoms  bright, 
And  midst  their  weary  woe  uprose  the  sun, 
And  thus  has  Ogier's  noble  life  begun. 


HOPE  is  our  life  when  first  our  life  grows  clear  ; 
Hope  and  delight,  scarce  crossed  by  lines  of  fear, 
Yet  the  day  comes  when  fain  we  would  not  hope, 
But  forasmuch  as  we  with  life  must  cope, 
Straggling  with  this  and  that,  and  who  knows  why? 
Hope  will  not  give  us  up  to  certainty, 
But  still  must  bide  with  us  ;  and  with  this  man, 
Whose  life  amid  such  promises  began,  . 
Great  things  she  wrought ;  but  now  the  time  has  come 
When  he  no  more  on  earth  may  have  his  home. 

Great  things  he  suffered,  great  delights  he  had, 
Unto  great  kings  he  gave  good  deeds  for  bad  ; 
He  ruled  o'er  kingdoms  where  his  name  no  more 
Is  had  in  memory,  and  on  many  a  shore 
He  left  his  sweat  and  blood  to  win  a  name 
Passing  the  bounds  of  earthly  creatures'  fame. 
A  love  he  won  and  lost,  a  well -loved  son 
Whose  little  day  of  promise  soon  was  done  : 
A  tender  wife  he  had,  that  he  must  leave 
Before  his  heart  her  love  could  well  receive  ; 
Those  promised  gifts,  that  on  his  careless  head 
In  those  first  hours  of  his  fair  life  were  shed, 
He  took  unwitting,  and  unwitting  spent, 
Nor  gave  himself  to  grief  and  discontent 
Because  he  saw  the  end  a-drawihg  nigh. 

Where  is  he  now  ?  in  what  land  must  he  die, 
To  leave  an  empty  name  to  us  on  earth  ? 


OGIER    THE  DANE.  399 

A  tale  half  true,  to  cast  across  our  mirth 

Some  pensive  thoughts  of  life  that  might  have  been  ; 

Where  is  he  now,  that  all  this  life  has  seen  ? 

Behold,  another  eve  I  bid  you  see 
Than  that  calm  eve  of  his  nativity ; 
The  sun  is  setting  in  the  west,  the  sky 
Is  clear  and  hard,  and  no  clouds  come  anigh 
The  golden  orb,  but  further  off  they  lie, 
Steel-gray  and  black  with  edges  red  as  blood, 
And  underneath  them  is  the  weltering  flood 
Of  some  huge  sea,  whose  tumbling  hills,  as  they 
Turn  restless  sides  about,  are  black  or  gray 
Or  green,  or  glittering  with  the  golden  flame  ; 
The  wind  has  fallen  now,  but  still  the  same 
The  mighty  army  moves,  as  if  to  drown 
This  lone,  bare  rock,  whose  shear  scarped  sides  of  brown 
Cast  off  the  weight  of  waves  in  clouds  of  spray. 

Alas  !  what  ships  upon  an  evil  day 
Bent  over  to  the  wiry:!  in  this  ill  sea  ? 
What  navy,  whose  rent  bones  lie  wretchedly 
Beneath  these  cliffs  ?  a  mighty  one  it  was, 
A  fearful  storm  to  bring  such  things  to  pass. 

This  is  the  loadstone  rock  ;  no  armament 
Of  warring  nations,  in  their  madness  bent 
Their  course  this  way  ;  no  merchant  wittingly 
Has  steered  his  keel  unto  this  luckless  sea ; 
Upon  no  shipman's  card  its  name  is  writ, 
Though  worn-out  mariners  will  speak  of  it 
Within  the  ingle  on  the  winter's  night, 
When  all  within  is  warm  and  safe  and  bright, 
And  the  wind  howls  without :  but  'gainst  their  will 
Are  some  folk  driven  here,  and  then  all  skill 
Against  this  evil  rock  is  vain  and  naught, 
And  unto  death  the  shipmen  soon  are  brought  ; 
For  then  the  keel,  as  by  a  giant's  hand, 
Is  drawn  unto  that  mockery  of  a  land, 
And  presently  unto  its  sides  doth  cleave  ; 
When  if  they  'scape  swift  death,  yet  none  may  leave 
The  narrow  limits  of  that  barren  isle, 
And  thus  are  slain  by  famine  in  a  while 
Mocked,  as  they  say,  by  night  with  images 
Of  noble  castles  among  groves  of  trees, 
By  day  with  sounds  of  merry  minstrelsy. 


400  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

The  sun  sinks  now  below  this  hopeless  sea, 
The  clouds  are  gone,  and  all  the  sky  is  bright ; 
The  moon  is  rising  o'er  the  growing  night, 
And  by  its  light  may  ye  behold  the  bones. 
Of  generations  of  these  luckless  ones 
Scattered  about  the  rock  ;  but  nigh  the  sea 
Sits  one  alive,  who  uncomplainingly 
Awaits  his  death.     White-haired  is  he  and  old, 
Arrayed  in  royal  raiment,  bright  with  gold, 
But  tarnished  with  the  waves  and  rough  salt  air  j 
Huge  is  he,  of  a  noble  face  and  fair, 
As  for  an  ancient  man,  though  toil  and  eld 
Furrow  the  cheeks  that  ladies  once  beheld 
With  melting  hearts  —  Nay,  listen,  for  he  speaks  ! 
•      "  God,  thou  hast  made  me  strong  !  nigh  seven  weeks 
Have  passed  since  from  the  wreck  we  haled  our  store, 
And  five  long  days  well  told  have  now  passed  o'er 
Since  my  last  fellow  died,  with  my  last  bread 
Between  his  teeth,  and  yet  I  am  not  dead. 
Yea,  but  for  this  I  had  been  strong  enow 
In  some  last  bloody  field  my  sword  to  show. 
What  matter  ?  soon  will  all  be  past  and  done, 
Where'er  I  died  I  must  have  died  alone  : 
Yet,  Caraheu,  a  good  death  had  it  been 
Dying,  thy  face  above  me  to  have  seen, 
And  heard  my  banner  flapping  in  the  wind, 
Then,  though  my  memory  had  not  left  thy  mind, 
Yet  hope  and  fear  would  not  have  vexed  thee  more 
When  thou  hadst  known  that  everything  was  o'er ; 
But  now  thou  waitest,  still  expecting  me, 
Whose  sail  shall  never  speck  thy  bright  blue  sea. 

"  And  thou,  Clarice,  the  merchants  thou  may'st  call 
To  tell  thee  tales  within  thy  pictured  hall, 
But  never  shall  they  tell  true  tales  of  me  : 
Whatever  sails  the  Kentish  hills  may  see 
Swept  by  the  flood-tide  toward  thy  well-walled  town, 
No  more  on  my  sails  shall  they  look  adown. 

"  Get  thee  another  leader,  Charlemaine, 
For  thou  shall  look  to  see  my  shield  in  vain, 
When  in  the  fair  fields  of  the  Prankish  land, 
Thick  as  the  corn  they  tread,  the  heathen  stand. 

"  What  matter  ?  ye  shall  learn  to  live  your  lives  ; 
Husbands  and  children,  other  friends  and  wives, 
Shall  wipe  the  tablets  of  your  memory  clean, 
And  all  shall  be  as  I  had  never  been. 


OGIER    THE  DANE.  401 

' '  And  now,  O  God,  am  I  alone  with  Thee ; 
A  little  thing  indeed  it  seems  to  be 
To  give  this  life  up,  since  it  needs  must  go 
Some  time  or  other ;  now  at  last  I  know 
How  foolishly  men  play  upon  the  earth, 
When  unto  them  a  year  of  life  seems  worth 
Honor  and  friends,  and  these  vague  hopes  and  sweet 
That  like  real  things  my  dying  heart  do  greet, 
Unreal  while  living  on  the  earth  I  trod, 
And  but  myself  I  knew  no  other  god. 
Behold,  I  thank  Thee  that  Thou  sweet'nest  thus 
This  end,  that  I  had  thought  most  piteous, 
If  of  another  I  had  heard  it  told. " 

What  man  is  this,  who,  weak  and  worn  and  old, 
Gives  up  his  life  within  that  dreadful  isle, 
And  on  the  fearful  coming  death  can  smile  ? 
Alas !  this  man,  so  battered  and  outworn, 
Is  none  but  he,  who,  on  that  summer  morn, 
Received  such  promises  of  glorious  life  : 
Ogier  the  Dane  this  is,  to  whom  all  strife 
Was  but  as  wine  to  stir  awhile  the  blood, 
To  whom  all  life,  however  hard,  was  good  : 
This  is  the  man,  unmatched  of  heart  and  limb, 
Ogier  the  Dane,  whose  sight  has  waxed  not  dim 
For  all  the  years  that  he  on  earth  has  dwelt ; 
Ogier  the  Dane,  that  never  fear  has  felt, 
Since  he  knew  good  from  ill  ;  Ogier  the  Dane, 
The  heathen's  dread,  the  evil-doer's  bane. 


BRIGHT  had  the  moon  grown  as  his  words  were  done, 
And  no  more  was  there  memory  of  the  sun 
Within  the  west,  and  he  grew  drowsy  now, 
And  somewhat  smoother  was  his  wrinkled  brow 
As  thought  died  out  beneath  the  hand  of  sleep, 
And  o'er  his  soul  forgelfulness  did  ci-eep, 
Hiding  the  image  of  swift-coming  death  ; 
Until  as  peacefully  he  drew  his  breath 
As  on  that  day,  past  for  a  hundred  years, 
When,  midst  the  nurse's  quickly  falling  tears, 
He  fell  asleep  to  his  first  lullaby. 

The  night  changed  as  he  slept,  white  clouds  and  high 
Began  about  the  lonely  moon  to  close  ; 
26 


402  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And  from  the  dark  west  a  new  wind  arose, 
And  with  the  sound  of  heavy-falling  waves 
Mingled  its  pipe  about  the  loadstone  caves  ; 
But  when  the  twinkling  stars  were  hid  away, 
And  a  faint  light  and  broad,  like  dawn  of  day, 
The  moon  upon  that  dreary  country  shed, 
Ogier  awoke,  and  lifting  up  his  head 
And  smiling,  muttered,  "  Nay,  no  more  again  ; 
Rather  some  pleasure  new,  some  other  pain, 
Unthought  of  both,  some  other  form  of  strife  "  ; 
For  he  had  waked  from  dreams  of  his  old  life, 
And  through  St.  Omer's  archer-guarded  gate 
Once  more  had  seemed  to  pass,  and  saw  the  state 
Of  that  triumphant  king  ;  and  still,  though  all 
Seemed  changed,  and  folk  by  other  names  did  call 
Faces  he  knew  of  old,  yet  none  the  less 
He  seemed  the  same,  and,  midst  that  mightiness, 
Felt  his  own  power,  and  grew  the  more  athirst 
For  coming  glory,  as  of  old,  when  first 
He  stood  before  the  face  of  Charlemaine, 
A  helpless  hostage  with  all  life  to  gain. 

But  now,  awake,  his  worn  face  once  more  sank 
Between  his  hands,  and,  murmuring  not,  he  drank 
The  draught  of  death  that  must  that  thirst  allay. 

But  while  he  sat  and  waited  for  the  day 
A  sudden  light  across  the  bare  rock  streamed, 
Which  at  the  first  he  noted  not,  but  deemed 
The  moon  her  fleecy  veil  had  broken  through ; 
But  ruddier  indeed  this  new  light  grew 
Than  were  the  moon's  gray  beams,  and,  therewithal, 
Soft  far-off  music  on  his  ears  did  fall ; 
Yet  moved  he  not,  but  murmured,  "  This  is  death, 
An  easy  thing  like  this  to  yield  my  breath, 
Awake,  yet  dreaming,  with  no  sounds  of  fear, 
No  dreadful  sights  to  tell  me  it  is  near ; 
Yea,  God,  I  thank  thee  !  "  but  with  that  last  word 
It  seemed  to  him  that  he  his  own  name  heard 
"Whispered,  as  though  the  wind  had  borne  it  past ; 
With  that  he  gat  unto  his  feet  at  last, 
But  still  awhile  he  stood,  with  sunken  head, 
And  in  a  low  and  trembling  voice  he  said, 
"  Lord,  I  am  ready,  whither  shall  I  go  ? 
I  pray  thee  unto  me  some  token  show. " 
And,  as  he  said  this,  round  about  he  turned, 
And  in  the  east  beheld  a  light  that  burned 


OGIER    THE  DANE.  403 

As  bright  as  day  ;  then,  though  his  flesh  might  fear 
The  coming  change  that  he  believed  so  near, 
Yet  did  his  soul  rejoice,  for  now  he  thought 
Unto  the  very  heaven  to  be  brought : 
And  though  he  felt  alive,  deemed  it  might  be 
That  he  in  sleep  had  died  full  easily. 

Then  toward  that  light  did  he  begin  to  go, 
And  still  those  strains  he  heard,  far  off  and  low, 
That  grew  no  louder ;  still  that  bright  light  streamed 
Over  the  rocks,  yet  nothing  brighter  seemed, 
But  like  the  light  of  some  unseen  bright  flame 
Shone  round  about,  until  at  last  he  came 
Unto  the  dreary  islet's  other  shore, 
And  then  the  minstrelsy  he  heard  no  more, 
And  softer  seemed  the  strange  light  unto  him  ; 
But  yet  or  ever  it  had  grown  quite  dim, 
Beneath  its  waning  light  could  he  behold 
A  mighty  palace  set  about  with  gold, 
Above  green  meads  and  groves  of  summer  trees 
Far  off  across  the  welter  of  the  seas  ; 
But,  as  he  gazed,  it  faded  from  his  sight, 
And  the  gray  hidden  moon's  diffused  soft  light, 
Which  soothly  was  but  darkness  to  him  now, 
His  sea-girt  island  prison  did  but  show. 

But  o'er  the  sea  he  still  gazed  wistfully, 
And  said,  "  Alas  !  and  when  will  this  go  by 
And  leave  my  soul  in  peace  ?  must  I  still  dream 
Of  life  that  once  so  dear  a  thing  did  seem, 
That,  when  I  wake,  death  may  the  bitterer  be  ? 
Here  will  I  sit  until  he  come  to  me, 
And  hide  mine  eyes  and  think  upon  my  sin, 
That  so  a  little  calm  I  yet  may  win 
Before  I  stand  within  the  awful  place." 

Then  down  he  sat  and  covered  up  his  face, 
Yet  therewithal  his  trouble  could  not  hide, 
Nor  waiting  thus  for  death  could  he  abide, 
For,  though  he  knew  it  not,  the  yearning  pain 
Of  hope  of  life  had  touched  his  soul  again  — 
If  he  could  live  awhile,  if  he  could  live  ! 
The  mighty  being,  who  once  was  wont  to  give 
The  gift  of  life  to  many  a  trembling  man  ; 
"Who  did  his  own  will  since  his  life  began  ; 
Who  feared  not  aught,  but  strong  and  great  and  free 
Still  cast  aside  the  thought  of  what  might  be  ; 
Must  all  this  then  be  lost,  and  with  no  will, 
Powerless  and  blind,  must  he  some  fate  fulfil, 
Nor  know  what  he  is  doing  any  more  ? 


404  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Soon  he  arose  and  paced  along  the  shore, 
And  gazed  out  seaward  for  the  blessed  light ; 
But  naught  he  saw  except  the  old  sad  sight, 
The  ceaseless  tumbling  of  the  billows  gray, 
The  white  upspringing  of  the  spurts  of  spray 
Amidst  that  mass  of  timbers,  the  rent  bones 
Of  the  sea-houses  of  the  hapless  ones 
Once  cast  like  him  upon  this  deadly  isle. 

He  stopped  his  pacing  in  a  little  while, 
And  clenched  his  mighty  hands,  and  set  his  teeth, 
And  gazing  at  the  ruin  underneath, 
He  swung  from  off  the  bare  cliff's  jagged  brow, 
And  on  some  slippery  ledge  he  wavered  now, 
Without  a  hand-hold,  and  now  stoutly  clung 
With  hands  alone,  and  o'er  the  welter  hung, 
Not  caring  aught  if  thus  his  life  should  end  j 
But  safely  midst  all  this  did  he  descend 
The  dreadful  cliff,  and  since  no  beach  was  there, 
But  from  the  depths  the  rock  rose  stark  and  bare, 
Nor  crumbled  aught  beneath  the  hammering  sea, 
Upon  the  wrecks  he  stood  unsteadily. 

But  now,  amid  the  clamor  of  the  waves, 
And  washing  to-and-fro  of  beams  and  staves, 
Dizzy  with  hunger,  dreamy  with  distress, 
And  all  those  days  of  fear  and  loneliness, 
The  ocean's  tumult  seemed  the  battle's  roar, 
His  heart  grew  hot,  as  when  in  days  of  yore 
He  heard  the  cymbals  clash  amid  the  crowd 
Of  dusky  faces  ;  now  he  shouted  loud, 
And  from  crushed  beam  to  beam  began  to  leap, 
And  yet  his  footing  somehow  did  he  keep 
Amidst  their  tossing,  and  indeed  the  sea 
Was  somewhat  sunk  upon  the  island's  lee. 
So  quickly  on  from  wreck  to  wreck  he  passed, 
And  reached  the  outer  line  of  wrecks  at  last, 
And  there  a  moment  stood  unsteadily, 
Amid  the  drift  of  spray  that  hurried  by, 
And  drew  Courtain  his  sword  from  out  its  sheath, 
And  poised  himself  to  meet  the  coming  death, 
Still  looking  out  to  sea  ;  but  as  he  gazed, 
And  once  or  twice  his  doubtful  feet  he  raised 
To  take  the  final  plunge,  that  heavenly  strain 
Over  the  washing  waves  he  heard  again, 
And  from  the  dimness  something  bright  he  saw 
Across  the  waste  of  waters  towards  him  draw ; 


OGIER    THE  DANE.  405 

And  hidden  now,  now  raised  aloft,  at  last 
Unto  his  very  feet  a  boat  was  cast, 
Gilded  inside  and  out,  and  well  arrayed 
With  cushions  soft ;  far  fitter  to  have  weighed 
From  some  sweet  garden  on  the  shallow  Seine, 
Or  in  a  reach  of  green  Thames  to  have  lain, 
Than  struggle  with  that  huge  confused  sea ; 
But  Ogier  gazed  upon  it  doubtfully 
One  moment,  and  then,  sheathing  Courtain,  said, 
"  What  tales  are  these  about  the  newly  dead 
The  heathen  told  ?  what  matter,  let  all  pass  ; 
This  moment  as  one  dead  indeed  I  was, 
And  this  must  be  what  I  have  got  to  do, 
I  yet  perchance  may  light  on  something  new 
Before  I  die  ;  though  yet  perchance  this  keel 
Unto  the  wondrous  mass  of  charmed  steel 
Is  drawn  as  others."     With  that  word  he  leapt 
Into  the  boat,  and  o'er  the  cushions  crept 
From  stem  to  stern,  but  found  no  rudder  there, 
Nor  any  oars,  nor  were  the  cushions  fair 
Made  wet  by  any  dashing  of  the  sea. 

Now  while  he  pondered  how  these  things  could  be, 
The  boat  began  to  move  therefrom  at  last, 
But  over  him  a  drowsiness  was  cast, 
And  as  o'er  tumbling  hills  the  skiff  did  pass, 
He  clean  forgot  his  death  and  where  he  was. 

At  last  he  woke  up  to  a  sunny  day, 
And,  looking  round,  saw  that  his  shallop  lay 
Moored  at  the  edge  of  some  fair  tideless  sea 
Unto  an  overhanging  thick-leaved  tree, 
Where  in  the  green  waves  did  the  low  bank  dip 
Its  fresh  and  green  grass-covered  daisied  lip  ; 
But  Ogier  looking  thence  no  more  could  see 
That  sad  abode  of  death  and  misery, 
Nor  aught  but  wide  and  empty  ocean,  gray 
With  gathering  haze,  for  now  it  neared  midday ; 
Then  from  the  golden  cushions  did  he  rise, 
And  wondering  still  if  this  were  Paradise 
He  stepped  ashore,  but  drew  Courtain  his  sword 
And  muttered  therewithal  a  holy  word. 

Fair  was  the  place,  as  though  amidst  of  May, 
Nor  did  the  brown  birds  fear  the  sunny  day, 
For  with  their  quivering  song  the  air  was  sweet ; 
Thick  grew  the  field-flowers  underneath  his  feet, 
And  on  his  head  the  blossoms  down  did  rain, 


406  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Yet  mid  these  fair  things  slowly  and  with  pain 

He  'gan  to  go,  yea,  even  when  his  foot 

First  touched  the  llowery  sod,  to  his  heart's  root 

A  coldness  seemed  to  strike,  and  now  each  limb 

Was  growing  stiff,  his  eyes  waxed  bleared  and  dim, 

And  all  his  storecl-up  memory  'gan  to  fail, 

Nor  yet  would  his  once  mighty  heart  avail 

For  lamentations  o'er  his  changed  lot ; 

Yet  urged  by  some  desire,  he  knew  not  what, 

Along  a  little  path  'twixt  hedges  sweet, 

Drawn  sword  in  hand,  he  dragged  his  faltering  feet, 

For  what  then  seemed  to  him  a  weary  way, 

Whereon  his  steps  he  needs  must  often  stay 

And  lean  upon  the  mighty  well-worn  sword 

That  in  those  hands,  grown  old,  for  king  or  lord 

Had  small  respect  in  glorious  days  long  past 

But  still  he  crept  along,  and  at  the  last 
Came  to  a  gilded  wicket,  and  through  this 
Entered  a  garden  fit  for  utmost  bliss, 
If  that  might  last  which  needs  must  soon  go  by  : 
There  'gainst  a  tree  he  leaned,  and  with  a  sigh 
He  said,  "  O  God,  a  sinner  I  have  been, 
And  good  it  is  that  I  these  things  have  seen 
Before  I  meet  what  thou  hast  set  apart 
To  cleanse  the  earthly  folly  from  my  heart ; 
But  who  within  this  garden  now  can  dwell 
Wherein  guilt  first  upon  the  world  befell  ?  " 

A  little  further  yet  he  staggered  on, 
Till  to  a  fountain-side  af  last  he  won, 
O'er  which  two  white-thorns  their  sweet  blossoms  shed, 
There  he  sank  down,  and  laid  his  weary  head 
Beside  the  mossy  roots,  and  in  a  while 
He  slept,  and  dreamed  himself  within  the  isle ; 
That  splashing  fount  the  weary  sea  did  seem, 
And  in  his  dream  the  fair  place  but  a  dream  ; 
But  when  again  to  feebleness  he  woke 
Upon  his  ears  that  heavenly  music  broke, 
Not  faint  or  far  as  in  the  isle  it  was, 
But  e'en  as  though  the  minstrels  now  did  pass 
Anigh  his  resting-place  ;  then  fallen  in  doubt, 
E'en  as  he  might,  he  rose  and  gazed  about, 
Leaning  against  the  hawthorn  stem  with  pain ; 
And  yet  his  straining  gaze  was  but  in  vain, 
Death  stole  so  fast  upon  him,  and  no  more 
Could  he  behold  the  blossoms  as  before, 


OGfER    THE  DANE.  407 

No  more  the  trees  seemed  rooted  to  the  ground, 

A  heavy  mist  seemed  gathering  all  around, 

And  in  its  heart  some  bright  thing  seemed  to  be, 

And  round  his  head  there  breathed  deliciously 

Sweet  odors,  and  that  music  never  ceased. 

But  as  the  weight  of  Death's  strong  hand  increased 

Again  he  sank  adown,  and  Courtain's  noise 

Within  the  scabbard  seemed  a  farewell  voice 

Sent  from  the  world  he  loved  so  well  of  old, 

And  all  his  life  was  as  a  story  told, 

And  as  he  thought  thereof  he  'gan  to  smile 

E'en  as  a  child  asleep,  but  in  a  while 

It  was  as  though  he  slept,  and  sleeping  dreamed, 

For  in  his  half-closed  eyes  a  glory  gleamed, 

As  though  from  some  sweet  face  and  golden  hair, 

And  on  his  breast  were  laid  soft  hands  and  fair, 

And  a  sweet  voice  was  ringing  in  his  ears, 

Broken  as  if  with  flow  of  joyous  tears  ; 

"  Ogier,  sweet  friend,  hast  thou  not  tarried  long? 
Alas  !  thine  hundred  years  of  strife  and  wrong !  " 
Then  he  found  voice  to  say,  ' '  Alas  !  dear  Lord, 
Too  long,  too  long  ;  and  yet  one  little  word 
Right  many  a  year  agone  had  brought  me  here." 
Then  to  his  face  that  face  was  drawn  anear, 
He  felt  his  head  raised  up  and  gently  laid 
On  some  kind  knee,  again  the  sweet  voice  said, 
"  Nay,  Ogier,  nay,  not  yet,  not  yet,  dear  friend ! 
Who  knoweth  when  our  linked  life  shall  end. 
Since  thou  art  come  unto  mine  arms  at  last, 
And  all  the  turmoil  of  the  world  is  past  ? 
Why  do  I  linger  ere  I  see  thy  face 
As  I  desired  it  in  that  mourning  place 
So  many  years  ago  —  so  many  years, 
Thou  knewest  not  thy  love  and  all  her  fears  ?  " 

"  Alas  !  "  he  said,  "  what  mockery  is  this 
That  thou  wilt  speak  to  me  of  earthly  bliss  ? 
No  longer  can  I  think  upon  the  earth, 
Have  I  not  done  with  all  its  grief  and  mirth  ? 
Yes,  I  was  Ogier  once,  but  if  my  love 
Should  come  once  more  my  dying  heart  to  move, 
Then  must  she  come  from  'neath  the  milk-white  walls 
Whereon  to-day  the  hawthorn  blossom  falls 
Outside  St.  Omer's  —  art  thou  she?  her  name 
I  could  remember  once  'mid  death  and  fame 
Is  clean  forgotten  now  ;  but  yesterday, 
Meseems,  our  son  upon  her  bosom  lay  : 


38  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Baldwin  the  fair  — what  hast  them  done  with  him 
Since  Chariot  slew  him  ?     Ah,  mine  eyes  wax  dim  ; 
Woman,  forbear!  wilt  thou  not  let  me  die? 
Did  I  forget  thee  in  the  days  gone  by  ? 
Then  let  me  die,  that  we  may  meet  again  ! " 

He  tried  to  move  from  her,  but  all  in  vain, 
For  life  had  wellnigh  left  him,  but  withal 
He  felt  a  kiss  upon  his  forehead  fall, 
And  could  not  speak ;  he  felt  slim  fingers  fair 
Move  to  his  mighty  sword-worn  hand,  and  there 
Set  on  some  ring,  and  still  he  could  not  speak, 
And  once  more  sleep  weighed  down  his  eyelids  weak. 


BUT,  ah  !  what  land  was  this  he  woke  unto  ? 
What  joy  was  this  that  filled  his  heart  anew  ? 
Had  he  then  gained  the  very  Paradise  ? 
Trembling,  he  durst  not  at  the  first  arise, 
Although  no  more  he  felt  the  pain  of  eld, 
Nor  durst  he  raise  his  eyes  that  now  beheld 
Beside  him  the  white  flowers  and  blades  of  grass ; 
He  durst  not  speak,  lest  he  some  monster  was. 

But  while  he  lay  and  hoped,  that  gentle  voice 
Once  more  he  heard  ;  "  Yea,  thou  may'st  well  rejoice  ! 
Thou  livest  still,  my  sweet,  thou  livest  still, 
Apart  from  every  earthly  fear  and  ill ; 
Wilt  thou  not  love  me,  who  have  wrought  thee  this, 
That  I  like  thee  may  live  in  double  bliss  ?  " 

Then  Ogier  rose  up,  nowise  like  to  one 
Whose  span  of  earthly  life  is  nigh  outrun, 
But  as  he  might  have  risen  in  old  days 
To  see  the  spears  cleave  the  fresh  morning  haze  ; 
But,  looking  round,  he  saw  no  change  there  was 
In  the  fair  place  wherethrough  he  first  did  pass, 
Though  all,  grown  clear  and  joyous  to  his  eyes, 
Now  looked  no  worse  than  very  Paradise  ; 
Behind  him  were  the  thorns,  the  fountain  fair 
Still  sent  its  glittering  stream  forth  into  air, 
And  by  its  basin  a  fair  woman  stood, 
And  as  their  eyes  met  his  renewdd  blood 
Rushed  to  his  face  ;  with  unused  thoughts  and  sweet 
And  hurrying  hopes,  his  heart  began  to  beat. 


OGIER    THE  DANE.  409 

The  fairest  of  all  creatures  did  she  seem  ; 
So  fresh  and  delicate  you  well  might  deem 
That  scarce  for  eighteen  summers  had  she  blessed 
The  happy,  longing  world  ;  yet,  for  the  rest, 
Within  her  glorious  eyes  such  wisdom  dwelt 
A  child  before  her  had  the  wise  man  felt, 
And  with  the  pleasure  of  a  thousand  years 
Her  lips  were  fashioned  to  move  joy  or  tears 
Among  the  longing  folk  where  she  might  dwell, 
To  give  at  last  the  kiss  unspeakable. 

In  such  wise  was  she  clad  as  folk  may  be, 
Who,  for  no  shame  of  their  humanity, 
For  no  sad  changes  of  the  imperfect  year, 
Rather  for  added  beauty,  raiment  wear  ; 
For,  as  the  heat-foretelling  gray-blue  haze 
Veils  the  green  flowery  morn  of  late  May-days, 
Her  raiment  veiled  her  ;  where  the  bands  did  meet 
That  bound  the  sandals  to  her  dainty  feet, 
Gems  gleamed  ;  a  fresh  rose-wreath  embraced  her  head, 
And  on  her  breast  there  lay  a  ruby  red. 

So  with  a  supplicating  look  she  turned 
To  meet  the  flame  that  in  his  own  eyes  burned, 
And  held  out  both  her  white  arms  lovingly, 
As  though  to  greet  him  as  he  drew  anigh. 
Stammering  he  said,  "  Who  art  thou?  how  am  I 
So  cured  of  all  my  evils  suddenly, 
That  certainly  I  felt  no  mightier,  when, 
Amid  the  backward  rush  of  beaten  men, 
About  me  drooped  the  axe-torn  Oriflamme  ? 
Alas  !  I  fear  that  in  some  dream  I  am. " 

"  Qgier,"  she  said,  "  draw  near,  perchance  it  is 
That  such  a  name  God  gives  unto  our  bliss  ; 
I  know  not,  but  if  thou  art  such  an  one 
As  I  must  deem,  all  days  beneath  the  sun 
That  thou  hast  had,  shall  be  but  dreams  indeed 
To  those  that  I  have  given  thee  at  thy  need. 
For  many  years  ago  beside  the  sea 
When  thou  wert  born,  I  plighted  troth  with  thee  : 
Come  near  then,  and  make  mirrors  of  mine  eyes, 
That  thou  mayst  see  what  these  my  mysteries 
Have  wrought  in  thee  ;  surely  but  thirty  years, 
Passed  amidst  joy,  thy  nesv-born  body  bears, 
Nor  while  thou  art  with  me,  and  on  this  shore 
Art  still  full-fed  of  love,  shalt  thou  see  more. 
Nay,  love,  come  nigher,  and  let  me  take  thine  hand, 
The  hope  and  fear  of  many  a  warring  land, 


4IO  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And  I  will  show  thee  wherein  lies  the  spell, 
Whereby  this  happy  change  upon  thee  fell." 

Like  a  shy  youth  before  some  royal  love, 
Close  up  to  that  fair  woman  did  he  move, 
And  their  hands  met ;  yet  to  his  changed  voice 
He  dared  not  trust ;  nay,  scarcely  could  rejoice 
E'en  when  her  balmy  breath  he  'gan  to  feel, 
And  felt  strange  sweetness  o'er  his  spirit  steal 
As  her  light  raiment,  driven  by  the  wind, 
Swept  round  him,  and,  bewildered  and  half  blind, 
His  lips  the  treasure  of  her  lips  did  press, 
And  round  him  clung  her  perfect  loveliness. 

For  one  sweet  moment  thus  they  stood,  and  then 
She  drew  herself  from  out  his  arms  again, 
And  panting,  lovelier  for  her  love,  did  stand 
Apart  awhile,  then  took  her  lover's  hand, 
And,  in  a  trembling  voice,  made  haste  to  say,  — 

"  O  Ogier,  when  thou  earnest  here  to-day, 
I  feared  indeed,  that  in  my  sport  with  fate, 
I  might  have  seen  thee  e'en  one  day  too  late, 
Before  this  ring  thy  finger  should  embrace ; 
Behold  it,  love,  and  thy  keen  eyes  may  trace 
Faint  figures  wrought  upon  the  ruddy  gold  ; 
My  father  dying  gave  it  me,  nor  told 
The  manner  of  its  making,  but  I  know 
That  it  can  make  thee  e'en  as  thou  art  now 
Despite  the  laws  of  God  —  shrink  not  from  me 
Because  I  give  an  impious  gift  to  thee  — 
Has  not  God  made  me  also,  who  do  this  ? 
But  I,  who  longed  to  share  with  thee  my  bliss, 
Am  of  the  fays,  and  live  their  changeless  life, 
And,  like  the  gods  of  old,  I  see  the  strife 
That  moves  the  world,  unmoved  if  so  I  will ; 
For  we  the  fruit,  that  teaches  good  and  ill, 
Have  never  touched  like  you  of  Adam's  race  ; 
And  while  thou  dwellest  with  me  in  this  place 
Thus  shall  thou  be  —  ah,  and  thou  deem'st,  indeed, 
That  thou  shall  gain  thereby  no  happy  meed 
Reft  of  the  world's  joys  ?  nor  cansl  understand 
How  thou  art  come  into  a  happy  land  ?  — 
Love,  in  thy  world  the  priests  of  heaven  still  sing, 
And  tell  thee  of  it  many  a  joyous  thing  ; 
But  think'sl  thou,  bearing  the  world's  joy  and  pain, 
Thou  couldst  live  Ihere  ?  nay,  nay,  bul  bom  again 
Thou  wouldsl  be  happy  with  the  angels'  bliss ; 


OGIER    THE  DANE.  411 

And  so  with  us  no  otherwise  it  is, 

Nor  hast  thou  cast  thine  old  life  quite  away 

Even  as  yet,  though  that  shall  be  to-day. 

' '  But  for  the  love  and  country  thou  hast  won, 
Know  thou,  that  thou  art  come  to  Avallon, 
That  is  both  thine  and  mine  ;  and  as  for  me, 
Morgan  le  Fay  men  call  me  commonly 
Within  the  world,  but  fairer  names  than  this 
I  have  for  thee  and  me,  'twixt  kiss  and  kiss. " 

Ah,  what  was  this  ?  and  was  it  all  in  vain, 
That  she  had  brought  him  here  this  life  to  gain  ? 
For,  ere  her  speech  was  done,  like  one  turned  blind 
He  watched  the  kisses  of  the  wandering  wind 
Within  her  raiment,  or  as  some  one  sees 
The  very  best  of  well-wrought  images 
When  he  is  blind  with  grief,  did  he  behold 
The  wandering  tresses  of  her  locks  of  gold 
Upon  her  shoulders  ;  and  no  more  he  pressed 
The  hand  that  in  his  own  hand  lay  at  rest : 
His  eyes,  grown  dull  with  changing  memories, 
Could  make  no  answer  to  her  glorious  eyes  : 
Cold  waxed  his  heart,  and  weary  and  distraught, 
With  many  a  cast-by,  hateful,  dreary  thought, 
Unfinished  in  the  old  days  ;  and  withal 
He  needs  must  think  of  what  might  chance  to  fall 
In  this  life  new-begun  ;  and  good  and  bad 
Tormented  him,  because  as  yet  he  had 
A  worldly  heart  within  his  frame  made  new, 
And  to  the  deeds  that  he  was  wont  to  do 
Did  his  desires  still  turn.     But  she  a  while 
Stood  gazing  at  him  with  a  doubtful  smile, 
And  let  his  hand  fall  down  ;  but  suddenly 
Sounded  sweet  music  from  some  close  near  by, 
And  then  she  spoke  again  :  "  Come,  love,  with  me, 
That  thou  thy  new  life  and  delights  mayst  see," 
And  gently  with  that  word  she  led  him  thence, 
And  though  upon  him  now  there  fell  a  sense 
Of  dreamy  and  unreal  bewilderment, 
As  hand  in  hand  through  that  green  place  they  went, 
Yet  therewithal  a  strain  of  tender  love 
A  little  yet  his  restless  heart  did  move. 

So  through  the  whispering  trees  they  came  at  last 
To  where  a  wondrous  house  a  shadow  cast 
Across  the  flowers,  and  o'er  the  daisied  grass 
Before  it,  crowds  of  lovely  folk  did  pass, 


412  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Playing  about  in  carelessness  and  mirth, 

Unshadowed  by  the  doubtful  deeds  of  earth  ; 

And  from  the  midst  a  band  of  fair  girls  came, 

With  flowers  and  music,  greeting  him  by  name, 

And  praising  him  ;  but  ever  like  a  dream 

He  could  not  break,  did  all  to  Ogier  seem, 

And  he  his  old  world  did  the  more  desire, 

For  in  his  heart  still  burned  unquenched  the  fire, 

That  through  the  world  of  old  so  bright  did  burn  : 

Yet  was  he  fain  that  kindness  to  return, 

And  from  the  depth  of  his  full  heart  he  sighed. 

Then  toward  the  house  the  lovely  Queen  did  guide 
His  listless  steps,  and  seemed  to  take  no  thought 
Of  knitted  brow  or  wandering  eyes  distraught, 
But  still  with  kind  love  lighting  up  her  face 
She  led  him  through  the  door  of  that  fair  place, 
While  round  about  them  did  the  damsels  press  ; 
And  he  was  moved  by  all  that  loveliness 
As  one  might  be,  who,  lying  half  asleep 
In  the  May  morning,  notes  the  light  wind  sweep 
Over  the  tulip  beds  ;  no  more  to  him 
Were  gleaming  eyes,  red  lips,  and  bodies  slim, 
Amidst  that  dream,  although  the  first  surprise 
Of  hurried  love  wherewith  the  Queen's  sweet  eyes 
Had  smitten  him,  still  in  his  heart  did  stir. 

And  so  at  last  he  came,  led  on  by  her 
Into  a  hall  wherein  a  fair  throne  was, 
And  hand  in  hand  thereto  the  twain  did  pass  ; 
And  there  she  bade  him  sit,  and  when  alone 
He  took  his  place  upon  the  double  throne, 
She  cast  herself  before  him  on  her  knees, 
Embracing  his,  and  greatly  did  increase 
The  shame  and  love  that  vexed  his  troubled  heart : 
But  now  a  line  of  girls  the  crowd  did  part, 
Lovelier  than  all,  and  Ogier  could  behold 
One  in  their  midst  who  bore  a  crown  of  gold 
Within  her  slender  hands  and  delicate  ; 
She,  drawing  nigh,  beside  the  throne  did  wait 
Until  the  Queen  arose  and  took  the  crown, 
Who  then  to  Ogier's  lips  did  stoop  adown 
And  kissed  him,  and  said,  "  Ogier,  what  were  worth 
Thy  miserable  days  of  strife  on  earth, 
That  on  their  ashes  still  thine  eyes  are  turned  ?  " 

Then,  as  she  spoke  these  words,  his  changed  heart  burned 
With  sudden  memories,  and  thereto  had  he 


OGIER    THE  DANE.  413 

Made  answer,  but  she  raised  up  suddenly 

The  crown  she  held  and  set  it  on  his  head, 

"  Ogier,"  she  cried,  "  those  troublous  days  are  dead  ; 

Thou  wert  dead  with  them  also,  but  for  me  ; 

Turn  unto  her  who  wrought  these  things  for  thee !  " 

Then,  as  he  felt  her  touch,  a  mighty  wave 
Of  iove  swept  o'er  his  soul,  as  though  the  grave 
Did  really  hold  his  body  ;  from  his  seat 
He  rose  to  cast  himself  before  her  feet ; 
But  she  clung  round  him,  and  in  close  embrace 
The  twain  were  locked  amidst  that  thronging  place. 

Thenceforth  new  life  indeed  has  Ogier  won, 
And  in  the  happy  land  of  Avallon 
Quick  glide  the  years  o'er  his  unchanging  head  ; 
There  saw  he  many  men  the  world  thought  dead, 
Living  like  him  in  sweet  forgetfulness 
Of  all  the  troubles  that  did  once  oppress 
Their  vainly  struggling  lives  —  ah,  how  can  I 
Tell  of  their  joy  as  though  I  had  been  nigh  ? 
Suffice  it  that  no  fear  of  death  they  knew, 
That  there  no  talk  there  was  of  false  or  true, 
Of  right  or  wrong/for  traitors  came  not  there ; 
That  everything  was  bright  and  soft  and  fair, 
And  yet  they  wearied  not  for  any  change, 
Nor  unto  them  did  constancy  seem  strange. 
Love  knew  they,  but  its  pain  they  never  had, 
But  with  each  other's  joy  were  they  made  glad  ; 
Nor  were  their  lives  wasted  by  hidden  fire, 
Nor  knew  they  of  the  unfulfilled  desire 
That  turns  to  ashes  all  the  joys  of  earth, 
Nor  knew  they  yearning  love  amidst  the  dearth 
Of  kind  and  loving  hearts  to  spend  it  on, 
Nor  dreamed  of  discontent  when  all  was  won  ; 
Nor  need  they  struggle  after  wealth  and  fame  ; 
Still  was  the  calm  flow  of  their  lives  the  same, 
And  yet,  I  say,  they  wearied  not  of  it  — 
So  did  the  promised  days  by  Ogier  flit. 


*"  I  ^HINK  that  a  hundred  years  have  now  passed  by, 

J_       Since  ye  beheld  Ogier  lie  down  to  die 
Beside  the  fountain  ;  think  that  now  ye  are 
In  France,  made  dangerous  with  wasting  war ; 


414  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

In  Paris,  where  about  each  guarded  gate, 

Gathered  in  knots,  the  anxious  people  wait, 

And  press  around  each  new-come  man  to  learn 

If  Harfleur  now  the  pagan  wasters  burn, 

Or  if  the  Rouen  folk  can  keep  their  chain, 

Or  Pont  de  1'Arche  unburnt  still  guards  the  Seine  ? 

Or  if  'tis  true  that  Andelys  succor  wants  ? 

That  Vernon's  folk  are  fleeing  east  to  Mantes  ? 

When  will  they  come  ?  or  rather  is  it  tine 

That  a  great  band  the  Constable  o'erthrew 

Upon  the  marshes  of  the  lower  Seine, 

And  that  their  long  ships,  turning  back  again, 

Caught  by  the  high-raised  waters  of  the  bore 

Were  driven  here  and  there  and  cast  ashore  ? 

Such  questions  did  they  ask,  and,  as  fresh  men 
Came  hurrying  in,  they  asked  them  o'er  again, 
And  from  scared  folk,  or  fools,  or  ignorant, 
Still  got  new  lies  or  tidings  very  scant. 

But  now  amidst  these  men  at  last  came  one, 
A  little  ere  the  setting  of  the  sun, 
W'ith  two  stout  men  behind  him,  armed  right  well, 
Who  ever  as  they  rode  on,  sooth  to  tell, 
With  doubtful  eyes  upon  their  master  stared, 
Or  looked  about  like  troubled  men  and  scared. 
And  he  they  served  was  noteworthy  indeed ; 
v  Of  ancient  fashion  were  his  arms  and  weed, 
Rich  past  the  wont  of  men  in  those  sad  times  ; 
His  face  was  bronzed,  as  though  by  burning  climes, 
But  lovely  as  the  image  of  a  god 
Carved  in  the  days  before  on  earth  Christ  trod  ; 
But  solemn  were  his  eyes,  and  gray  as  glass, 
And  like  to  ruddy  gold  his  fine  hair  was ; 
A  mighty  man  he  was,  and  taller  far 
Than  those  who  on  that  day  must  bear  the  war 
The  pagans  waged  :  he  by  the  warders  stayed 
Scarce  looked  on  them,  but  straight  their  words  obeyed 
And  showed  his  pass  ;  then,  asked  about  his  name 
And  from  what  city  of  the  world  he  came, 
Said,  that  men  called  him  now  the  Ancient  Knight, 
That  he  was  come  midst  the  king's  men  to  fight 
From  St.  Omer's  ;  and  as  he  spoke,  he  gazed 
Down  on  the  thronging  street  as  one  amazed, 
And  answered  no  more  to  the  questioning 
Of  frightened  folk  of  this  or  that  sad  thing  ; 
But  ere  he  passed  on,  turned  about  at  last 


OGIER    THE  DANE.  415 

And  on  the  wondering  guard  a  strange  look  cast, 
And  said,  "  St.  Mary  !  do  such  men  as  ye 
Fight  with  the  wasters  from  across  the  sea  ? 
Then,  certes,  are  ye  lost,  however  good 
Your  hearts  may  be ;  not  such  were  those  who  stood 
Beside  the  Hammer-bearer  years  agone. " 
So  said  he,  and  as  his  fair  armor  shone 
With  beauty  of  a  time  long  passed  away, 
So  with  the  music  of  another  day 
His  deep  voice  thrilled  the  awe-struck,  listening  folk. 

Yet  from  the  crowd  a  mocking  voice  outbroke, 
That  cried,  "  Be  merry,  masters,  fear  ye  naught, 
Surely  good  succor  to  our  side  is  brought ; 
For  here  is  Charlemaine  come  off  his  tomb 
To  save  his  faithful  city  from  its  doom. " 

"  Yea,"  said  another,  "  this  is  certain  news, 
Surely  ye  know  how  all  the  carvers  use 
To  carve  the  dead  man's  image  at  the  best, 
That  guards  the  place  where  he  may  lie  at  rest ; 
Wherefore  this  living  image  looks  indeed, 
Spite  of  his  ancient  tongue  and  marvellous  weed, 
To  have  but  thirty  summers." 

At  the  name 

Of  Charlemaine,  he  turned  to  whence  there  came 
The  mocking  voice,  and  somewhat  knit  his  brow, 
And  seemed  as  he  would  speak,  but  scarce  knew  how  ; 
So  with  a  half-sigh  soon  sank  back  again 
Into  his  dream,  and  shook  his  well-wrought  rein, 
And  silently  went  on  upon  his  way. 

And  this  was  Ogier  :  on  what  evil  day 
Has  he  then  stumbled,  that  he  needs  must  come, 
Midst  war  and  ravage,  to  the  ancient  home 
Of  his  desires  ?  did  he  grow  weary  then, 
And  wish  to  strive  once  more  with  foolish  men 
For  worthless  things  ?  or  is  fair  Avallon 
Sunk  in  the  sea,  and  all  that  glory  gone  ? 

Nay,  thus  it  happed  — •  One  day  she  came  to  him 
And  said,  "  Ogier,  thy  name  is  waxen  dim 
Upon  the  world  that  thou  rememberest  not ; 
The  heathen  men  are  thick  on  many  a  spot 
Thine  eyes  have  seen,  and  which  I  love  therefore  ; 
And  God  will  give  His  wonted  help  no  more. 
Wilt  thou,  then,  help  ?  canst  thou  have  any  mind 
To  give  thy  banner  once  more  to  the  wind  ? 


416  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Since  greater  glory  thou  shalt  win  for  this 

Than  erst  thou  gatheredst  ere  thou  cam'st  to  bliss  : 

For  men  are  dwindled  both  in  heart  and  frame, 

Nor  holds  the  fair  land  any  such  a  name 

As  thine,  when  thou  wert  living  midst  thy  peers ; 

The  world  is  worser  for  these  hundred  years." 

From  his  calm  eyes  there  gleamed  a  little  fire, 
And  in  his  voice  was  something  of  desire, 
To  see  the  land  where  he  was  used  to  be, 
As  now  he  answered  :  "  Nay,  choose  thou  for  me, 
Thou  art  the  wisest ;  it  is  more  than  well 
Within  this  peaceful  place  with  thee  to  dwell : 
Nor  ill  perchance  in  that  old  land  to  die, 
If,  dying,  I  keep  not  the  memory 
Of  this  fair  life  of  ours."     "  Nay,  nay,"  said  she, 
"  As  to  thy  dying,  that  shall  never  be, 
Whiles  that  thou  keep'st  my  ring  —  and  now,  behold, 
I  take  from  thee  thy  charmed  crown  of  gold, 
And  thou  wilt  be  the  Ogier  that  thou  wast 
Ere  on  the  loadstone  rock  thy  ship  was  cast : 
Yet  thou  shalt  have  thy  youthful  body  still, 
And  I  will  guard  thy  life  from  every  ill." 

So  was  it  done,  and  Ogier,  armed  right  well, 
Sleeping,  was  borne  away  by  some  strong  spell, 
And  set  upon  the  Flemish  coast ;  and  thence 
Turned  to  St.Omer's,  with  a  doubtful  sense 
Of  being  in  some  wild  dream,  the  while  he  knew 
That  great  delight  forgotten  was  his  due, 
That  all  which  there  might  hap  was  of  small  worth. 

So  on  he  went,  and  sometimes  unto  mirth 
Did  his  attire  move  the  country-folk, 
But  oftener  when  strange  speeches  from  him  broke 
Concerning  men  and  things  for  long  years  dead, 
He  filled  the  listeners  with  great  awe  and  dread  ; 
For  in  such  wild  times  as  these  people  were 
Are  men  soon  moved  to  wonder  and  to  fear. 

Now  through  the  streets  of  Paris  did  he  ride, 
And  at  a  certain  hostel  did  abide 
Throughout  that  night,  and  ere  he  went  next  day 
He  saw  a  book  that  on  a  table  lay, 
And  opening  it  'gan  read  in  lazy  mood  : 
But  long  before  it  in  that  place  he  stood, 
Noting  naught  else  ;  for  it  did  chronicle 
The  deeds  of  men  of  old  he  knew  right  well, 
When  they  were  living  in  the  flesh  with  him : 


OGIER    THE  DANE.  417 

Yea,  his  own  deeds  he  saw,  grown  strange  and  dim 

Already,  and  true  stories  mixed  with  lies, 

Until,  with  many  thronging  memories 

Of  those  old  days,  his  heart  was  so  oppressed, 

He  'gan  to  wish  that  he  might  lie  at  rest, 

Forgetting  all  things  :  for  indeed  by  this 

Little  remembrance  had  he  of  the  bliss 

That  wrapped  his  soul  in  peaceful  Avallon. 

But  his  changed  life  he  needs  must  carry  on ; 
For  ye  shall  know  the  Queen  was  gathering  men 
To  send  unto  the  good  King,  who  as  then 
In  Rouen  lay,  beset  by  many  a  band 
Of  those  who  carried  terror  through  the  land, 
And  still  by  messengers  for  help  he  prayed  : 
Therefore  a  mighty  muster  was  being  made, 
Of  weak  and  strong,  and  brave  and  timorous, 
Before  the  Queen  anigh  her  royal  house. 
So  thither  on  this  morn  did  Ogier  turn, 
Some  certain  news  about  the  war  to  learn  ; 
And  when  he  came  at  last  into  the  square, 
And  saw  the  ancient  palace  great  and  fair 
Rise  up  before  him  as  in  other  days, 
And  in  the  merry  morn  the  bright  sun's  rays 
Glittering  on  gathering  helms  and  moving  spears, 
He  'gan  to  feel  as  in  the  long-past  years, 
And  his  heart  stirred  within  him.     Now  the  Queen 
Came  from  within,  right  royally  beseen, 
And  took  her  seat  beneath  a  canopy, 
With  lords  and  captains  of  the  war  anigh  ; 
And  as  she  came  a  mighty  shout  arose, 
And  round  about  began  the  knights  to  close, 
Their  oath  of  fealty  there  to  swear  anew, 
And  learn  what  service  they  had  got  to  do. 
But  so  it  was,  that  some  their  shouts  must  stay 
To  gaze  at  Ogier  as  he  took  his  way 
Through  the  thronged  place  ;  and  quickly  too  he  gat 
Unto  the  place  whereas  the  Lady  sat, 
For  men  gave  place  unto  him,  fearing  him  : 
For  not  alone  was  he  most  huge  of  limb, 
And  dangerous,  but  something  in  his  face, 
As  his  calm  eyes  looked  o'er  the  crowded  place, 
Struck  men  with  awe  ;  and  in  the  ancient  days, 
When  men  might  hope  alive  on  gods  to  gaze, 
They  would  have  thought,  "The  gods  yet  love  our  town, 
And  from  the  heavens  have  sent  a  great  one  down." 
27 


4i8  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Withal  unto  the  throne  he  came  so  near, 
That  he  the  Queen's  sweet  measured  voice  could  hear  ; 
And  swiftly  now  within  him  wrought  the  change 
That  first  he  felt  amid  those  faces  strange  ; 
And  his  heart  burned  to  taste  the  hurrying  life 
With  such  desires,  such  changing  sweetness  rife. 
And  yet,  indeed,  how  should  he  live  alone, 
Who  in  the  old  past  days  such  friends  had  known  ? 
Then  he  began  to  think  of  Caraheu, 
Of  Bellicent  the  fair,  and  once  more  knew 
The  bitter  pain  of  rent  and  ended  love. 
But  while  with  hope  and  vain  regret  he  strove, 
He  found  none  'twixt  him  and  the  Queen's  high  seat, 
And,  stepping  forth,  he  knelt  before  her  feet 
And  took  her  hand  to  swear,  as  was  the  way 
Of  doing  fealty  in  that  ancient  day, 
And  raised  his  eyes  to  hers  ;  as  fair  was  she 
As  any  woman  of  the  world  might  be, 
Full-limbed  and  tall,  dark-haired,  from  her  deep  eyes, 
The  snare  of  fools,  the  ruin  of  the  wise, 
Love  looked  unchecked  ;  and  now  her  dainty  hand, 
The  well-knit  holder  of  the  golden  wand, 
Trembled  in  his,  she  cast  her  eyes  adown, 
And  her  sweet  brow  was  knitted  to  a  frown, 
As  he,  the  taker  of  such  oaths  of  yore, 
Now  unto  her  all  due  obedience  swore, 
Yet  gave  himself  no  name  ;  and  now  the  Queen, 
Awed  by  his  voice  as  other  folk  had  been, 
Yet  felt  a  trembling  hope  within  her  rise 
Too  sweet  to  think  of,  and  with  love's  surprise 
Her  cheek  grew  pale  ;  she  said,  "  Thy  style  and  name 
Thou  tellest  not,  nor  what  land  of  thy  fame 
Is  glad  ;  for,  certes,  some  land  must  be  glad, 
That  in  its  bounds  her  house  thy  mother  had." 

"  Lady,"  he  said,  "  from  what  far  land  I  come 
I  well  might  tell  thee,  but  another  home 
Have  I  long  dwelt  in,  and  its  name  have  I 
Forgotten  now,  forgotten  utterly 
Who  were  my  fellows,  and  what  deeds  they  did  ; 
Therefore,  indeed,  shall  my  first  name  be  hid 
And  my  first  country  ;  call  me  on  this  day 
The  Ancient  Knight,  and  let  me  go  my  way." 
He  rose  withal,  for  she  her  fingers  fair 
Had  drawn  aback,  and  on  him  'gan  to  stare 
As  one  afeard  ;  for  something  terrible 
Was  in  his  speech,  and  that  she  knew  right  well, 


OGIER    THE  DANE.  419 

Who  'gan  to  love  him,  and  to  fear  that  she, 
Shut  out  by  some  strange  deadly  mystery, 
Should  never  gain  from  him  an  equal  love  ; 
Yet,  as  from  her  high  seat  he  'gan  to  move, 
She  said,  "  O  Ancient  Knight,  come  presently, 
When  we  have  done  this  muster,  unto  me, 
And  thou  shalt  have  thy  charge  and  due  command 
For  freeing  from  our  foes  this  wretched  land  !  " 

Then  Ogier  made  his  reverence  and  went, 
And  somewhat  could  perceive  of  her  intent ; 
For  in  his  heart  life  grew,  and  love  with  life 
Grew,  and  therewith,  twixt  love  and  fame,  was  strife. 

But,  as  he  slowly  gat  him  from  the  square, 
Gazing  at  all  the  people  gathered  there, 
A  squire  of  the  Queen's  behind  him  came, 
And  breathless,  called  him  by  his  new-coined  name, 
And  bade  him  turn  because  the  Queen  now  bade, 
Since  by  the  muster  long  she  might  be  stayed, 
That  to  the  palace  he  should  bring  him  straight, 
Midst  sport  and  play  her  coming  back  to  wait ; 
Then  Ogier  turned,  naught  loath,  and  with  him  went, 
And  to  a  postern-gate  his  steps  he  bent, 
That  Ogier  knew  right  well  in  days  of  old  ; 
Worn  was  it  now,  and  the  bright  hues  and  gold 
Upon  the  shields  above,  with  lapse  of  days, 
Were  faded  much  :  but  now  did  Ogier  gaze 
Upon  the  garden  where  he  walked  of  yore, 
Holding  the  hands  that  he  should  see  no  more ; 
For  all  was  changed  except  the  palace  fair, 
That  Charlemaine's  own  eyes  had  seen  built  there 
Ere  Ogier  knew  him  ;  there  the  squire  did  lead 
The  Ancient  Knight,  who  still  took  little  heed 
Of  all  the  things  that  by  the  way  he  said, 
For  all  his  thoughts  were  on  the  days  long  dead. 

There  in  the  painted  hall  he  sat  again, 
And  'neath  the  pictured  eyes  of  Charlemaine 
He  ate  and  drank,  and  felt  it  like  a  dream  ; 
And  midst  his  growing  longings  yet  might  deem 
That  he  from  sleep  should  wake  up  presently 
In  some  fair  city  on  the  Syrian  sea, 
Or  on  the  brown  rocks  of  the  loadstone  isle. 
But  fain  to  be  alone,  within  a  while 
He  gat  him  to  the  garden,  and  there  passed 
By  wondering  squires  and  damsels,  till  at  last, 
Far  from  the  merry  folk  who  needs  must  play, 
If  on  the  world  were  coming  its  last  day, 


420  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

He  sat  him  down,  and  through  his  mind  there  ran 
Fauit  thoughts  of  that  day,  when,  outworn  and  wan, 
He  lay  down  by  the  fountain-side  to  die. 
But  when  he  strove  to  gain  clear  memory 
Of  what  had  happed  since  on  the  isle  he  lay 
Waiting  for  death,  a  hopeless  castaway, 
Thought,  failing  him,  would  rather  bring  again 
His  life  among  the  peers  of  Charlemaine, 
And  vex  his  soul  with  hapless  memories ; 
Until  at  last,  worn  out  by  thought  of  these, 
And  hopeless  striving  to  find  what  was  true, 
And  pondering  on  the  deeds  he  had  to  do 
Ere  he  returned,  whereto  he  could  not  tell, 
Sweet  sleep  upon  his  wearied  spirit  fell. 
And  on  the  afternoon  of  that  fair  day, 
Forgetting  all,  beneath  the  trees  he  lay. 

Meanwhile  the  Queen,  affairs  of  state  being  done, 
Went  through  the  gardens  with  one  dame  alone 
Seeking  for  Ogier,  whom  at  last  she  found 
Laid  sleeping  on  the  daisy-sprinkled  ground, 
Dreaming,  I  know  not  what,  of  other  days. 
Then  on  him  for  a  while  the  Queen  did  gaze, 
Drawing  sweet  poison  from  the  lovely  sight, 
Then  to  her  fellow  turned,  "The  Ancient  Knight  — 
What  means  he  by  this  word  of  his  ? "  she  said  ; 
"  He  were  well  mated  with  some  lovely  maid 
Just  pondering  on  the  late-heard  name  of  love. " 

"  Softly,  my  lady,  he  begins  to  move," 
Her  fellow  said,  a  woman  old  and  gray  ; 
"  Look  now,  his  arms  are  of  another  day  ; 
None  know  him  or  his  deeds  ;  thy  squire  just  said 
He  asked  about  the  state  of  men  long  dead  ; 
I  fear  what  he  may  be  ;  look,  seest  thou  not 
That  ring  that  on  one  finger  he  has  got, 
Where  figures  strange  upon  the  gold  are  wrought : 
God  grant  that  he  from  hell  has  not  been  brought 
For  our  confusion,  in  this  doleful  war, 
Who  surely  in  enough  of  trouble  are 
Without  such  help  "  ;  then  the  Queen  turned  aside 
Awhile,  her  drawn  and  troubled  face  to  hide, 
For  lurking  dread  this  speech  within  her  stirred  ; 
But  yet  she  said,  "  Thou  sayest  a  foolish  word, 
This  man  is  come  against  our  enemies 
To  fight  for  us."     Then  down  upon  her  knees 
Fell  the  old  woman  by  the  sleeping  knight, 


OGIER    THE  DANE.  421 

And  from  his  hand  she  drew  with  fingers  light 

The  wondrous  ring,  and  scarce  again  could  rise 

Ere  'neath  the  trembling  Queen's  bewildered  eyes 

The  change  began  ;  his  golden  hair  turned  white, 

His  smooth  cheek  wrinkled,  and  his  breathing  light 

Was  turned  to  troublous  struggling  for  his  breath, 

And  on  his  shrunk  lips  lay  the  hand  of  death  ; 

And,  scarce  less  pale  than  he,  the  trembling  Queen 

Stood  thinking  on  the  beauty  she  had  seen 

And  longed  for  but  a  little  while  ago, 

Yet  with  her  terror  still  her  love  did  grow, 

And  she  began  to  weep  as  though  she  saw 

Her  beauty  e'en  to  such  an  ending  draw. 

And  'neath  her  tears  waking  he  oped  his  eyes, 

And  strove  to  speak,  but  naught  but  gasping  sighs 

His  lips  could  utter  ;  then  he  tried  to  reach 

His  hand  to  them,  as  though  he  would  beseech 

The  gift  of  what  was  his  :  but  all  the  while 

The  crone  gazed  on  them  with  an  evil  smile, 

Then  holding  toward  the  Queen  that  wondrous  ring, 

She  said,  "  Why  weep'st  thou?  having  this  fair  thing, 

Thou,  losing  naught  the  beauty  that  thou  hast, 

May'st  watch  the  vainly  struggling  world  go  past, 

Thyself  unchanged. "     The  Queen  put  forth  her  hand 

And  took  the  ring,  and  there  awhile  did  stand 

And  strove  to  think  of  it,  but  still  in  her 

Such  all-absorbing  longings  love  did  stir, 

So  young  she  was,  of  death  she  could  not  think, 

Or  what  a  cup  eld  gives  to  man  to  drink ; 

Yet  on  her  finger  had  she  set  the  ring 

When  now  the  life  that  hitherto  did  cling 

To  Ogier's  heart  seemed  fading  quite  away, 

And  scarcely  breathing  with  shut  eyes  he  lay. 

Then,  kneeling  down,  she  murmured  piteously, 

"  Ah,  wilt  thou  love  me  if  I  give  it  thee, 

And  thou  grow'st  young  again  ?  what  should  I  do 

If  with  the  eyes  thou  thus  shalt  gain  anew 

Thou  shouldst  look  scorn  on  me  ?  "     But  with  that  word 

The  hedge  behind  her,  by  the  west  wind  stirred, 

Cast  fear  into  her  heart  of  some  one  nigh, 

And  therewith  on  his  finger  hastily 

She  set  the  ring,  then  rose  and  stood  apart 

A  little  way,  and  in  her  doubtful  heart 

With  love  and  fear  was  mixed  desire  of  life. 

But  standing  so,  a  look  with  great  scorn  rife 
The  elder  woman,  turning,  cast  on  her, 


422  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Pointing  to  Ogier,  who  began  to  stir ; 

She  looked,  and  all  she  erst  saw  now  did  seem 

To  have  been  nothing  but  a  hideous  dream, 

As  fair  and  young  he  rose  from  off  the  ground 

And  cast  a  dazed  and  puzzled  look  around, 

Like  one  just  waked  from  sleep  in  some  strange  place  ; 

But  soon  his  grave  eyes  rested  on  her  face, 

And  turned  yet  graver  seeing  her  so  pale, 

And  that  her  eyes  were  pregnant  with  some  tale 

Of  love  and  fear ;  she  'neath  his  eyes  the  while 

Forced  her  pale  lips  to  semblance  of  a  smile, 

And  said,  "  O  Ancient  Knight,  thou  sleepest  then? 

While  through  this  poor  land  range  the  heathen  men, 

Unmet  of  any  but  my  King  and  Lord  : 

Nay,  let  us  see  the  deeds  of  thine  old  sword. " 

"  Queen,"  said  he,  "bid  me  then  unto  this  work, 

And  certes  I  behind  no  wall  would  lurk, 

Nor  send  for  succor,  while  a  scanty  folk 

Still  followed  after  me  to  break  the  yoke  : 

I  pray  thee  grace  for  sleeping,  and  were  fain 

That  I  might  rather  never  sleep  again 

Than  have  such  wretched  dreams  as  I  e'en  now 

Have  waked  from." 

Lovelier  she  seemed  to  grow 
Unto  him  as  he  spoke  ;  fresh  color  came 
Into  her  face,  as  though  for  some  sweet  shame, 
While  she  with  tearful  eyes  beheld  him  so, 
That  somewhat  even  must  his  burnt  cheek  glow, 
His  heart  beat  faster.     But  again  she  said, 
"  Nay,  will  dreams  burden  such  a  mighty  head  ? 
Then  may  I  too  have  pardon  for  a  dream  ; 
Last  night  in  sleep  I  saw  thee,  who  didst  seem 
To  be  the  King  of  France  ;  and  thou  and  I 
Were  sitting  at  some  great  festivity 
W'ithin  the  many- peopled  gold-hung  place." 

The  blush  of  shame  was  gone  as  on  his  face 
She  gazed,  and  saw  him  read  her  meaning  clear 
And  knew  that  no  cold  words  she  had  to  fear, 
But  rather  that  for  softer  speech  he  yearned. 
Therefore,  with  love  alone  her  smooth  cheek  burned ; 
Her  parted  lips  were  hungry  for  his  kiss, 
She  trembled  at  the  near  approaching  bliss  ; 

Nathless,  she  checked  her  love  a  little  while, 
Because  she  felt  the  old  dame's  curious  smile 
Upon  her,  and  she  said,  "O  Ancient  Knight, 
If  I  then  read  my  last  night's  dream  aright, 


OGIER    THE  DANE. 

Thou  art  come  here  our  very  help  to  be, 
Perchance  to  give  my  husband  back  to  me  ; 
Come  then,  if  thou  this  land  art  fain  to  save, 
And  show  the  wisdom  thou  must  surely  have 
Unto  my  council  ;  I  will  give  thee  then 
What  charge  I  may  among  my  valiant  men ; 
And  certes  thou  wilt  do  so  well  herein, 
That,  erelong,  something  greater  shall  thou  win  : 
Come,  then,  deliverer  of  my  throne  and  land, 
And  let  me  touch  for  once  thy  mighty  hand 
With  these  weak  fingers. " 

As  she  spoke,  she  met 
His  eager  hand,  and  all  things  did  forget 
But  for  one  moment,  for  too  wise  were  they 
To  cast  the  coming  years  of  joy  away ; 
Then  with  her  other  hand  her  gown  she  raised 
And  led  him  thence,  and  o'er  her  shoulder  gazed 
At  her  old  follower  with  a  doubtful  smile, 
As  though  to  say,  "  Be  wise,  I  know  thy  guile  ! " 

But  slowly  she  behind  the  lovers  walked, 
Muttering,  "  So  be  it !  thou  shalt  not  be  balked 
Of  thy  desire  ;  be  merry  !  I  am  wise, 
Nor  will  I  rob  thee  of  thy  Paradise 
For  any  other  than  myself ;  and  thou 
May'st  even  happen  to  have  had  enow 
Of  this  new  love,  before  I  get  the  ring, 
And  I  may  work  for  thee  no  evil  thing. " 

Now  ye  shall  know  that  the  old  chronicle, 
Wherein  I  read  all  this,  doth  duly  tell 
Of  all  the  gallant  deeds  that  Ogier  did, 
There  may  ye  read  them  ;  nor  let  me  be  chid 
If  I  therefore  say  little  of  these  things, 
Because  the  thought  of  Avallon  still  clings 
Unto  my  heart,  and  scarcely  can  I  bear 
To  think  of  that  long,  dragging,  useless  year, 
Through  which,  with  dulled  and  glimmering  memory, 
Ogier  was  grown  content  to  live  and  die 
Like  other  men ;  but  this  I  have  to  say, 
That  in  the  council  chamber  on  that  day 
The  Old  Knight  showed  his  wisdom  well  enow, 
While  fainter  still  with  love  the  Queen  did  grow 
Hearing  his  words,  beholding  his  gray  eyes 
Flashing  with  fire  of  warlike  memories  ; 
Yea,  at  the  last  he  seemed  so  wise  indeed 
That  she  could  give  him  now  the  charge,  to  lead 


423 


424  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

One  wing  of  the  great  army  that  set  out 
From  Paris'  gates,  midst  many  a  wavering  shout, 
Midst  trembling  prayers,  and  unchecked  wails  and  tears, 
And  slender  hopes  and  unresisted  fears. 

Now  ere  he  went,  upon  his  bed  he  lay, 
Newly  awakened  at  the  dawn  of  day, 
Gathering  perplexed  thoughts  of  many  a  thing, 
When,  midst  the  carol  that  the  birds  did  sing 
Unto  the  coming  of  the  hopeful  sun, 
He  heard  a  sudden  lovesome  song  begun 
'Twixt  two  young  voices  in  the  garden  green, 
That  seemed  indeed  the  farewell  of  the  Queen. 


SONG. 


In  the  white-flowered  hawthorn  brake, 
Love,  be  merry  for  my  sake  ; 
Twine  the  blossoms  in  my  hair, 
Kiss  me  where  I  am  most  fair  — 
Kiss  me,  love!  for  who  kno-Meth 
What  thing  cometh  after  death  ? 


Nay,  the  •garlanded gold  hair 
Hides  thee  where  thou  art  most  fair  ; 
Hides  the  rose-tinged  hills  of  snow  — 
Ah,  sweet  love,  I  have  thee  now  ! 
Kiss  me,  love  !  for  who  knoweth 
What  thing  cometh  after  death  ? 

HJEC. 

Shall  we  weep  for  a  dead  day, 
Or  set  Sorrow  in  our  way  ? 
Hidden  by  my  golden  hair, 
Wilt  thou  weep  that  sweet  days  wear  ? 
Kiss  me,  love  !  for  who  knoweth 
What  thing  cometh  after  death  ? 

ILLE. 

Weep,  O  Love,  the  days  that  flit, 
Now,  while  I  can  feel  thy  breath  ; 


OGIER    THE  DANE.  425 

Then  may  I  remember  it 

Sad  and  old,  and  near  my  death. 
Kiss  me,  love  !  for  who  knoweth 
What  thing  cometh  after  death  ? 

Soothed  by  the  pleasure  that  the  music  brought 

And  sweet  desire,  and  vague  and  dreamy  thought 

Of  happiness  it  seemed  to  promise  him, 

He  lay  and  listened  till  his  eyes  grew  dim, 

And  o'er  him  'gan  forgetfulness  to  creep 

Till  in  the  growing  light  he  lay  asleep, 

Nor  woke  until  the  clanging  trumpet-blast 

Had  summoned  him  all  thought  away  to  cast : 

Yet  one  more  joy  of  love  indeed  he  had 

Ere  with  the  battle's  noise  he  was  made  glad  j 

For,  as  on  that  May  morning  forth  they  rode 

And  passed  before  the  Queen's  most  fair  abode, 

There  at  a  window  was  she  waiting  them 

In  fair  attire  with  gold  in  every  hem, 

And  as  the  Ancient  Knight  beneath  her  passed 

A  wreath  of  flowering  white- thorn  down  she  cast, 

And  looked  farewell  to  him,  and  forth  he  set 

Thinking  of  all  the  pleasure  he  should  get 

From  love  and  war,  forgetting  Avallon 

And  all  that  lovely  life  so  lightly  won  ; 

Yea,  now  indeed  the  earthly  life  o'erpast 

Ere  on  the  loadstone  rock  his  ship  was  cast 

Was  waxing  dim,  nor  yet  at  all  he  learned 

To  'scape  the  fire  that  erst  his  heart  had  burned. 

And  he  forgat  his  deeds,  forgat  his  fame, 

Forgat  the  letters  of  his  ancient  name 

As  one  waked  fully  shall  forget  a  dream, 

That  once  to  him  a  wondrous  tale  did  seem. 

Now  I,  though  writing  here  no  chronicle 
E'en  as  I  said,  must  nathless  shortly  tell 
That,  ere  the  army  Rouen's  gates  could  gain 
By  a  broad  arrow  had  the  King  been  slain, 
And  helpless  now  the  wretched  country  lay 
Beneath  the  yoke,  until  the  glorious  day 
When  Ogier  fell  at  last  upon  the  foe, 
And  scattered  them  as  helplessly  as  though 
They  had  been  beaten  men  without  a  name  : 
So  when  to  Paris  town  once  more  he  came 
Few  folk  the  memory  of  the  King  did  keep 
Within  their  hearts,  and  if  the  folk  did  weep 


426  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

At  his  returning,  'twas  for  joy  indeed 

That  such  a  man  had  risen  at  their  need 

To  work  for  them  so  great  deliverance, 

And  loud  they  called  on  him  for  King  of  France. 

But  if  the  Queen's  heart  were  the  more  a-flame 
For  all  that  she  had  heard  of  his  great  fame, 
I  know  not ;  rather  with  some  hidden  dread 
Of  coming  fate,  she  heard  her  lord  was  dead, 
And  her  false  dream  seemed  coming  true  at  last, 
For  the  clear  sky  of  love  seemed  overcast 
With  clouds  of  God's  great  judgments,  and  the  fear 
Of  hate  and  final  parting  drawing  near. 

So  now  when  he  before  her  throne  did  stand 
Amidst  the  throng  as  savior  of  the  land, 
And  she  her  eyes  to  his  kind  eyes  did  raise, 
And  there  before  all  her  own  love  must  praise ; 
Then  did  she  fall  a-weeping,  and  folk  said, 
"  See,  how  she  sorrows  for  the  newly  dead  ! 
Amidst  our  joy  she  needs  must  think  of  him  ; 
Let  be,  full  surely  shall  her  grief  wax  dim 
And  she  shall  wed  again." 

So  passed  the  year, 

While  Ogier  set  himself  the  land  to  clear 
Of  broken  remnants  of  the  heathen  men, 
And  at  the  last,  when  May-time  came  again, 
Must  he  be  crowned  King  of  the  twice-saved  land, 
And  at  the  altar  take  the  fair  Queen's  hand 
And  wed  her  for  his  own.     And  now  by  this 
Had  he  forgotten  clean  the  woe  and  bliss 
Of  his  old  life,  and  still  was  he  made  glad 
As  other  men  ;  and  hopes  and  fears  he  had 
As  others,  and  bethought  him  not  at  all 
Of  what  strange  days  upon  him  yet  should  fall 
When  he  should  live  and  these  again  be  dead. 

Now  drew  the  time  round  when  he  should  be  wed, 
And  in  his  palace  on  his  bed  he  lay 
Upon  the  dawning  of  the  very  day  : 
'Twixt  sleep  and  waking  was  he,  and  could  hear 
E'en  at  that  hour,  through  the  bright  morn  and  clear, 
The  hammering  of  the  folk  who  toiled  to  make 
Some  well-wrought  stages  for  the  pageant's  sake, 
Though  hardly  yet  the  sparrows  had  begun 
To  twitter  o'er  the  coming  of  the  sun, 
Nor  through  the  palace  did  a  creature  move. 


OGIER    THE  DANE. 

There  in  the  sweet  entanglement  of  love 
Midst  languid  thoughts  of  greater  bliss  he  lay, 
Remembering  no  more  of  that  other  day 
Than  the  hot  noon  remembereth  of  the  night, 
Than  summer  thinketh  of  the  winter  white. 

In  that  sweet  hour  he  heard  a  voice  that  cried, 
"  Ogier,  Ogier  !  "  then,  opening  his  eyes  wide, 
And  rising  on  his  elbow,  gazed  around, 
And  strange  to  him  and  empty  was  the  sound 
Of  his  own  name  ;  "  Whom  callest  thou  ?  "  he  said, 
For  I,  the  man  who  lies  upon  this  bed, 
Am  Charles  of  France,  and  shall  be  King  to-day, 
But  in  a  year  that  now  is  past  away 
The  Ancient  Knight  they  called  me  :  who  is  this, 
Thou  callest  Ogier,  then,  what  deeds  are  his  ? 
And  who  art  thou  ?  "     But  at  that  word  a  sigh, 
As  of  one  grieved,  came  from  some  place  anigh 
His  bedside,  and  a  soft  voice  spake  again, 
"  This  Ogier  once  was  great  amongst  great  men ; 
To  Italy  a  helpless  hostage  led  ; 
He  saved  the  King  when  the  false  Lombard  fled, 
Bore  forth  the  Oriflamme  and  gained  the  day  ; 
Chariot  he  brought  back,  whom  men  led  away, 
And  fought  a  day-long  fight  with  Caraheu. 
The  ravager  of  Rome  his  right  hand  slew  ; 
Nor  did  he  fear  the  might  of  Charlemaine, 
Who  for  a  dreary  year  beset  in  vain 
His  lonely  castle  ;  yet  at  last  caught  then, 
And  shut  in  hold,  needs  must  he  come  again 
To  give  an  unhoped  great  deliverance 
Unto  the  burdened,  helpless  land  of  France  : 
Denmark  he  gained  thereafter,  and  he  wore 
The  crown  of  England  drawn  from  trouble  sore  ; 
At  Tyre  then  he  reigned,  and  Babylon 
With  mighty  deeds  he  from  the  foemen  won  ; 
And  when  scarce  aught  could  give  him  greater  fame, 
He  left  the  world  still  thinking  on  his  name. 

"  These  things  did  Ogier,  and  these  things''didst  thou, 
Nor  will  I  call  thee  by  a  new  name  now 
Since  I  have  spoken  words  of  love  to  thee  — 
Ogier,  Ogier,  dost  thou  remember  me, 
E'en  if  thou  hast  no  thought  of  that  past  time 
Before  thou  earnest  to  our  happy  clime  ?  " 

As  this  was  said,  his  mazed  eyes  saw  indeed 
A  lovely  woman  clad  in  dainty  weed 


427 


428  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Beside  his  bed,  and  many  a  thought  was  stirred 

Within  his  heart  by  that  last  plaintive  word, 

Though  naught  he  said,  but  waited  what  should  come. 

"  Love,"  said  she,  "  I  am  here  to  bring  thee  home  ; 

Well  hast  thou  done  all  that  thou  cam'st  to  do, 

And  if  thou  bidest  here,  for  something  new 

Will  folk  begin  to  cry,  and  all  thy  fame 

Shall  then  avail  thee  but  for  greater  blame  ; 

Thy  love  shall  cease  to  love  thee,  and  the  earth 

Thou  lovest  now  shall  be  of  little  worth 

While  still  thou  keepest  life,  abhorring  it. 

Behold,  in  men's  lives  that  so  quickly  flit 

Thus  is  it,  how  then  shall  it  be  with  thee, 

Who  some  faint  image  of  eternity 

Hast  gained  through  me  ?  —  alas,  thou  heedest  not ! 

On  all  these  changing  things  thine  heart  is  hot,  — 

Take  then  this  gift  that  I  have  brought  from  far, 

And  then  may'st  thou  remember  what  we  are  ; 

The  lover  and  the  loved  from  long  ago." 

He  trembled,  and  more  memory  seemed  to  grow 
Within  his  heart  as  he  beheld  her  stand, 
Holding  a  glittering  crown  in  her  right  hand  : 
"  Ogier,"  she  said,  "arise  and  do  on  thee 
The  emblems  of  thy  worldly  sovereignty, 
For  we  must  pass  o'er  many  a  sea  this  morn." 

He  rose,  and  in  the  glittering  tunic  worn 
By  Charlemaine  he  clad  himself,  and  took 
The  ivory  hand,  that  Charlemaine  once  shook 
Over  the  people's  head  in  days  of  old  ; 
Then  on  his  feet  he  set  the  shoes  of  gold, 
And  o'er  his  shoulders  threw  the  mantle  fair, 
And  set  the  gold  crown  on  his  golden  hair  : 
Then  on  the  royal  chair  he  sat  him  down, 
As  though  he  deemed  the  elders  of  the  town 
Should  come  to  audience ;  and  in  all  he  seemed 
To  do  these  things  e'en  as  a  man  who  dreamed. 

And  now  adown  the  Seine  the  golden  sun 
Shone  out,  as  toward  him  drew  that  lovely  one 
And  took  from  off  his  head  the  royal  crown, 
And,  smiling  on  the  pillow  laid  it  down, 
And  said,  "Lie  there,  O  crown  of  Charlemaine, 
Worn  by  a  mighty  man,  and  worn  in  vain, 
Because  he  died,  and  all  the  things  he  did 
Were  changed  before  his  face  by  earth  was  hid  ; 
A  better  crown  I  have  for  my  love's  head, 


OGIER    THE  DANE.  429 

Whereby  he  yet  shall  live,  when  all  are  dead 
His  hand  has  helped."     Then  on  his  head  she  set 
The  wondrous  crown,  and  said,  ' '  Forget,  forget ! 
Forget  these  weary  things,  for  thou  hast  much 
Of  happiness  to  .think  of." 

At  that  touch 

He  rose,  a  happy  light  gleamed  in  his  eyes  ; 
And  smitten  by  the  rush  of  memories, 
He  stammered  out,  "  O  love  !  how  came  we  here? 
What  do  we  in  this  land  of  Death  and  Fear  ? 
Have  I  not  been  from  thee  a  weary  while  ? 
Let  us  return  —  I  dreamed  about  the  isle  ; 
I  dreamed  of  other  years  of  strife  and  pain, 
Of  new  years  full  of  straggles  long  and  vain. " 

She  took  him  by  the  hand  and  said,  "Come,  love, 
I  am  not  changed  "  ;  and  therewith  did  they  move 
Unto  the  door,  and  through  the  sleeping  place 
Swiftly  they  went,  and  still  was  Ogier's  face 
Turned  on  her  beauty,  and  no  thought  was  his 
Except  the  dear  returning  of  his  bliss. 

But  at  the  threshold  of  the  palace-gate 
That  opened  to  them,  she  awhile  did  wait, 
And  turned  her  eyes  unto  the  rippling  Seine 
And  said,  "  O  love,  behold  it  once  again  ! " 
He  turned,  and  gazed  upon  the  city  gray 
Smit  by  the  gold  of  that  sweet  morn  of  May  j 
He  heard  faint  noises  as  of  wakening  folk 
As  on  their  heads  his  day  of  glory  broke ; 
He  heard  the  changing  rush  of  the  swift  stream 
Against  the  bridge-piers.     All  was  grown  a  dream, 
His  work  was  over,  his  reward  was  come, 
Why  should  he  loiter  longer  from  his  home  ? 

A  little  while  she  watched  him  silently, 
Then  beckoned  him  to  follow,  with  a  sigh, 
And,  raising  up  the  raiment  from  her  feet, 
Across  the  threshold  stepped  into  the  street ; 
One  moment  on  the  twain  the  low  sun  shone, 
And  then  the  place  was  void,  and  they  were  gone 
How  I  know  not ;  but  this  I  know  indeed, 
That  in  whatso  great  trouble  or  sore  need 
The  land  of  France  since  that  fair  day  has  been, 
No  more  the  sword  of  Ogier  has  she  seen. 


430  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 


SUCH  was  the  tale  he  told  of  Avallon, 
E'en  such  an  one  as  in  days  past  had  won 
His  youthful  heart  to  thiiTk  upon  the  quest ; 
But  to  those  old  hearts  nigh  in  reach  of  rest, 
Not  much  to  be  desired  now  it  seemed  — 
Perchance  the  heart  that  of  such  things  had  dreamed 
Had  found  no  words  in  this  death-laden  tongue 
We  speak  on  earth,  wherewith  they  might  be  sung  ; 
Perchance  the  changing  years  that  changed  his  heart 
E'en  in  the  words  of  that  old  tale  had  part, 
Changing  its  sweet  to  bitter,  to  despair 
The  foolish  hope  that  once  had  glittered  there  — 
Or  think,  that  in  some  bay  of  that  far  home 
They  then  had  sat,  and  watched  the  green  waves  come 
Up  to  their  feet  with  many  promises  ; 
Or  the  light  wind  midst  blossom-laden  trees, 
In  the  sweet  Spring  had  waited  many  a  word 
Of  no  worth  now,  and  many  a  hope  had  stirred 
Long  dead  forever. 

Howsoe'er  that  be 

Among  strange  folk  they  now  sat  quietly, 
As  though  that  tale  with  them  had  naught  to  do, 
As  though  its  hopes  and  fears  were  something  new. 
But  though,  indeed,  the  outworn,  dwindled  band 
Had  no  tears  left  for  that  once  longed-for  land, 
The  very  wind  must  moan  for  their  decay, 
And  from  the  sky,  grown  dull,  and  low,  and  gray, 
Cold  tears  must  fall  upon  the  lonely  field, 
That  such  fair  golden  hopes  erewhile  did  yield  ; 
And  on  the  blackening  woods,  wherein  the  doves 
Sat  silent  now,  forgetful  of  their  loves. 
Yet,  since  a  little  life  at  least  was  left, 
They  were  not  yet  of  every  joy  bereft, 
For  long  ago  was  past  the  agony, 
Midst  which  they  found  that  they  indeed  must  die  ; 
And  now  wellnigh  as  much  their  pain  was  past 
As  though  death's  veil  already  had  been  cast 
Over  their  heads  —  so,  midst  some  little  mirth, 
They  watched  the  dark  night  hide  the  gloomy  earth. 


Cambridge  :  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


THE 

SECOND    AND    CONCLUDING    VOLUME 

OP 

THE    EARTHLY    PARADISE, 

WHICH   WILL  CONTAIN 

The  following  Tales  in    Verse:—' 

THE  STORY  OF  THESEUS. 
THE  HILL  OF  VENUS. 
THE  STORY  OF  ORPHEUS  AND  EURYDICE. 
THE  STORY  OF  DOROTHEA. 
THE  FORTUNES  OF  GYGES. 
THE  PALACE  EAST  OF  THE  SUN. 
THE  DOLPHINS  AND  THE  LOVERS. 
THE  MAN  WHO  NEVER  LAUGHED  AGAIN. 
THE  STORY  OF  RHODOPE. 
AMYS  AND  AMILLION. 
THE  STORY  OF  BELLEROPHON. 
THE  RING  GIVEN  TO  VENUS. 
THE  EPILOGUE  TO  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 


